It's a trick, damn it, an evil plot to make someone around here look stupid. Like me. But it won't work, because you can't intimidate one who has eaten mystery meat for six years now so easily.

Just because they served steak in the dining halls last night--my piece looked like a topographic map of South America with the Amazon especially tough going--doesn't take away from the fact that around Harvard's kitchens you get a lot of food for thought but little for consumption.

This problem takes on acute significance during reading period, the longest day of the year (even December 21 doesn't last three weeks), when the highlight of one's existence is sitting around a dining hall through three shifts of people or six cups of coffee, whichever comes first.

After a prolonged sit, though, one usually returns to the front with either Montezuma's revenge or a stomach cavity the size of Brazil.

Of course, not all the meals are horrendous, but then again, not everyone can survive on a diet that even Oliver Twist would find measly. Take last week, for instance:

Sunday, January 9--A super day for bowls, but a foul one for meals. You just knew the week would be a lulu when the scrambled eggs for brunch required a straw instead of a fork.

And then things got worse. Already grossed out by the Vikings' performance against Oakland, most people turned a pale shade of purple when the dinner fare was a toss-up between baked meatloaf and sardine salad plate #13, the numeral an indication of how many people could stomach more than one sardine. A real toss-up, if you know what I mean.

Monday, January 10--It was raining cats and dogs outside, tunaburgers and beef stroganoff inside. Now we'll take for granted the fact that the former are not to be eaten, just avoided, and move on to the latter.

And then we'll move on to Elsie's, because the beef in the stronganoff is as tempting as a squash ball. There were, as always, leftovers from breakfast, which today included quiche lorraine, but most of us couldn't wait until four when the quiche defrosted.

Tuesday, January 11--The alarm rang early, but had I known that the french toast at breakfast would tear as easily as a wet kleenex, I would have stayed in the room and eaten my Scotties.

As for lunch, what is mulligatawny soup, anyway? And as for the pork chop suey, you can leave it or not take it (sort of like heads I win, tails you lose, remember?).

Wednesday, January 12--OK, the morning was killed today. You woke up late, read a few papers, took a shower and watched Fonzie don a kimono (Arnold was getting married).

Breakfast was lunch, lunch was breakfast, but no matter, it was still terrible. In regard to the French veal stew in a bowl, smart money would have opted for the bowl. As for salad plate #16, well, at least the expected turnout was three greater than that for Sunday's sardines.

Thursday, January 13--It's been almost a week already, and I don't know about you, but I still haven't recovered. Not to be definitive or anything, but without question, today's supper ranks in the all-time Top Ten Worst Meals Ever Served Anywhere By Anyone. There, I said it.

The day didn't start out that badly. We're not talking MacDonald's, but the cheeseburgers for lunch at least went down with only the minimum amount of discomfort.