When All You Actually Want is a Cinnamon Roll

Today was one of those mornings when you're teaching seventh grade about imagery. You're introducing a bit of homework that isn't due for a few days and the thing you really have to do is a lot of end-of-semester grading. A lot. We're talking 80 essays due Sunday night, 46 more due Tuesday night, and a thousand little things you've put off grading until the end... and it's sneaking up on you, and you're pushing it away so you can teach class... but all you really want is a cinnamon roll with raisins. You know? What every teacher really needs is their* vice principal to show up with a cinnamon roll, and be like, "Here you go! Take a break, and I'll cover this class time. Enjoy that cinnamon roll, now!"

I mean, these cinnamon rolls. Everyone talks about them. It's inappropriate how often everyone talks about them. The problem has been that I'm teaching during the time when the cafeteria is selling them. Because of my split schedule, half middle, half high school, I teach through the break time when the rolls are for sale. In yesterday's meeting about a low-performing student, I even told this to the administration, because a whole day had gone by since I had complained about something.

You know that fantasy where someone comes into the room and trades you your class time for a cinnamon roll? That totally happened today. And it was both of my assistant principals who came into class, one to present the cinnamon roll, the other to whip everyone into shape after the oohing and ahhhing had subsided. I'm telling you, I left that room so fast, with my Kindle and my warm, sticky cinnamon roll.

Did I mention that my school is hiring?




*I'm using the form as a third person singular neuter on purpose, so would you cool it, already?

Market

Stacey and I went out today to explore our neighborhood. It was a multi-dimensional trip, filled with optimism. We wanted to learn the neighborhood, buy an outrageously long list that included a doormat and a particular type of water filter, and to end the trip with smoothies. All of this sounded feasible in our minds.

We found the shops, and entered one with lots of shampoo in the window. Many men were rushing in and out. Inside, to the right were shampoos of all sorts, and to the left, wine of all sorts. Maybe liquor, too? We got caught up in a tide of leaving men, and saw no more. Shampoo is stupid, anyway, and we didn't need it that badly.

Next, a hardware store, in the front of which were stacked plastic containers of all shapes and sizes. Atop one pile snoozed a black and white cat that Stacey told me we could not have.

Then to the market where they sell vegetables, meat, olives, and fresh and dried fruit. Olives have appeared rather often in the last 24 hours, and I'm pleased with that. I admit to feeling rather daunted by the market stands, because they were soon to close, and we had their full attention. I find that annoying in places where I do speak the language. It was here that I realized I didn't even remember French numbers. We left for a supermarket where we could see the numbers, and maybe overpay, but at least avoid the staring.

On our way home, we remembered our desire for smoothies: It's hot, and smoothies are good! And look, there seems to be a place that sells beer... but probably other things, like maybe smoothies?

Here is where we found out that we didn't know the French word for smoothie, and we didn't have our phones with us to translate it. So we got beers, and they served us olives and peanuts, and one Moroccan bought us a second round. I'll leave it to you to Google what "smoothie" is in French. And I'll leave it to you to surmise whether we got a little lost on our way home.

Oh, never mind: it's "smoothie," and yes.

A Very Specific Survey (or, General News With a Particular Focus on Sleep)

What food have you been eating the most?

Squash from Joella and Carmen's garden. Sweet, savory, with bread, without bread, in a stew, in a pie. Always delicious.

What is your current relationship to sleep?

Aw, yeah. Every time I get in bed at the end of the day, a feeling of euphoria sneaks over me, and I giggle a lot, and squirm and am so thankful to be going to sleep. With all that joy and love I associate with going to sleep, you'd think I'd be in bed half the day. I'm not in bed half the day. I'm rarely in bed the allotted third of the day. 

In fact, this past week, I needed a holy reminder of the sacred nature of sleep. At an extended prayer meeting on Thursday evening, let the record show I had come a half hour late anyway, I was falling asleep during the group prayer time. Then, Luis sent us off to spend time with the Lord, listening and in quiet. Wow! What an opportunity to reach out to God, to listen. I didn't want to miss it, even though I couldn't seem to think straight. The world's edges were blurring; I was losing perspective and becoming more miserable by the moment. I kept thinking of the many things I'd left undone, the endless "to do" list I sometimes torture myself with. I went outside and put on a song I'd been thinking about, attempting to turn my eyes upon Jesus. Failing.

Out came Michelle and Troy and their baby son. "You're going home?" I asked. 

"Yup. The little man's gotta get to bed," Michelle responded. Then she stopped, "I wanted to sing this during the meeting, but I didn't have the guts in the moment. It's a song I was thinking about, and maybe it's for you..." And she sang a beautiful lullaby of God calling his child to rest in his presence. Too tired, I said, "That's it. I'm going home, too." I went inside and grabbed my coat, explaining my leaving to but one soul, and not attempting to excuse myself, feeling that God himself was calling me to rest. I went home, and to bed. 

What good things happened today?

One roommate announced her engagement. Another roommate announced her brand new nephew's birth. And after Chelsea had lost her phone all day, I found it in my car!

What upsetting thing happened last week?

A good friend lost her job. 

What question has been floating in your head recently?

What does it mean to finish well?

Thanks, Mom

Prompt: Indulge in nostalgia

I don't normally think about the positive things I associate with being a kid. My childhood is filled with half-gratified desires. I often think about how hard I had it. I always had questions that needed answering, and I longed to grow up so I could be taken seriously.

The library. As a child, my room had lots of picture books, and we were always at the library swapping them out. We rented movies from there, too, especially during the summer. I remember the first time I saw Princess Bride. My brother was skeptical that it was going to be "a girl movie" (ha!!). It should go without saying that we were both entirely satisfied by the viewing experience.

Midnight Snack. How it got started, I don't know. And it was never actually midnight when my mother indulged our young cravings for sweets. She put a few Graham crackers out with cups of milk. I became a pro Graham-dunker. Good job, Mom, on not giving us fruit snacks or candy at that hour. She knew nutrition, even if our babysitters were sometimes less than aware.

Reading to us.Why does no one read to me now? It's so comfortable and cozy to sit and listen to someone else's voice, on and on. As I rested my head on her side, I closed my eyes and heard her voice, swallowing my thoughts and spooning a thin layer of honey all over the world. She read to us before bed almost every night, when she wasn't working, of course, and she'd dismiss us to bed with, "first one to bed gets first hugs'n'kisses!" We scrambled for our rooms, and made such a fuss if she didn't judge correctly the "winner" of the game.

"Go outside and play." In my imperfect memory, Stephen always seemed to be outside with his friends, riding bike, or skateboarding, or playing street hockey, or... many other mysteries. None of my friends lived in town for a long time, so I confined myself to the yard, learned nothing there, and felt lonely. But at least I was outside, and so was Stephen, usually. Once, though, I recall he and Logan and Danny (together, the Three Musketeers, but without the noble intentions or code of honor) were playing in the basement. They were there for a long time, and finally came upstairs giggling. They had spray-painted their initials on a yellow, metal cabinet, long unused, in the tiny work room. The fumes had been getting to them, but they also thought that they were the cleverest little rascals to ever strategically spray paint their initials. The "LSD" cabinet remained in the house for a long time.

"Why don't you stay home tonight?" In high school, my mom would tell me that I couldn't go out, just because "you've already gone out three nights this week. It would be a good night to stay in." I so little understood how much my bitter, "But why?!" could have hurt her. My "why?" to the request to stay home implied so much: that I wanted to get away from her and the family, that I didn't think they were worth my time, that I had better things to do, better places to be, in short, that I didn't value my home community and consider it worth my contribution.

I wish more parents would tell their kids to stay in a few nights a week. When I tell it to dorm students, they are frustrated. They say things like, "It feels like I'm in prison!"; "I hate this place!"; "Why do you want to control me!?" But by the end of the year, they realize that the time they spent here was valuable. They wish they had spent more time getting to know the other students and advisers. They realize that this was their home for a while, and wish they had owned it more, contributed more.

Uncouth Thoughts for a Young Lady

I was so nervous right before the semester started. I'm teaching a subject in which I've never had formal, university training: the Bible. I mean, I've been a student of the Bible all my life. But to conceptualize how to teach it, well, I was in an uproar. The day before classes were to begin, I could barely breathe, I was so frazzled. I was sitting in a teachers' meeting, and a word came to me, which I believe was from God. Ever so gently, he said, "settle the f&*$ down."

++++

When I fall in love,
I don't want my heart to stop beating at the sight of him.
I want for him to see my heart, and to long for it to go on beating at all costs.
I want to do the same for him. I want us to help each other to live.

++++

I'm so glad that I am not thinking about moving this year. I dread it, really. Although, tonight, I was helping a friend gather his apartment together a wee bit, as he's preparing to move tomorrow, and it wasn't so bad. He's made sure not to collect much stuff. And he has help from people who love him. He said that it costs over $200 to hire movers. $500 if you have a piano that needs moving. I've never had to pay that. I hope you never do, either.

++++

I lied tonight. I ate out at a restaurant, and ordered a chicken dish from their "specials." It was still pricey, though. And when I got it, I couldn't really taste it. Not really at all. And it wasn't that I lack the ability to taste, which I questioned. It was just that it was an unimpressive, low-quality entree. The server came around to ask how it was, and I smiled and said, "very good, thank you." Lies.

But, really, what was she going to do about the food? I was embarrassed for her. But I didn't have to get the whole rest of it in a to-go box to spare her feelings, did I?

Life Tastes Sweet

Funny how tempting it is to blog about blogging or to make apologies for long, informative posts. Ha. This blog is about my life, so I feel justified in a few very long posts now and then that solely relay strings of experiences.

The painfully anticipated break is nearing its end, and I have lots of feelings and few moments to share. But I don't enjoy writing or reading about feelings. And I love to write and read about moments. So here are a few that come back to me, with their corresponding food of the moment.

On Christmas eve eve, I visited Krystle. We baked banana bread and talked and talked. She presented me with a gift of a beautiful hand-made afghan that rests snugly over the shoulders. It reminded me of Joella's grandmother's prayer shawl. I am wearing the afghan even now. Turkey Hill Double Dunker ice cream.

On Christmas eve, Stephen (my brother), my sister-in-law Megan, and my niece and nephew Aida and Holden went to Megan's aunt's house for dinner. Everyone eats and drinks and dodges children in the kitchen, dining room, and living room. One moment, I found myself on a big, well-stuffed chair, with Aida sitting next to me. We were discussing something. Then her cousin Maddy found her way to my lap. Then her cousin Luke found his way up the back of the chair, covering me in children. They fell over and on top of me, a sweet, laughing kid puddle. Orange sherbet punch.

Christmas day, we stayed inside like bums and watched A Christmas Story in segments that amounted to three full viewings. Sweet potato souffle.

The day after, we decided to eat at the Waffle Shop in State College. We waited for 15 minutes to be seated because it was so crowded. I sat between Aida and Holden. A teething Holden was biting the side of the table as our waitress came up. I forget our conversation. But she told us that she had been a waitress for 49 years, and she loved to serve people. Blueberry pancakes.

In Waynesboro later that week, Kelly, Sladana, Jack, Chelsea and I stopped at Sheetz for a snack before arriving at the movie theater. We sat in the round table and chatted about nothing, I'm sure. But the moment was sweet, there on the quiet edge of a spinning world. Macaroni bites.

Chels and I sat down together and watched The Prestige. I took Benadryl for some strange and awful allergy. I shouted out my guesses at the plot. She shouted out how annoying that was. Decaf tea.

Thursday lunch Sladana, BJ, Kelly, Josiah, and I ate together in Chambersburg. We sat in the draughty Subway sharing potato chips and stories and ideas. Sladana had work, so we remaining went to Starbucks. On the drive, we recalled our long and glorious history of loving Homestarrunner. Flurries had kicked up, but we were warm. Grande, soy, no vanilla, Mocha Frappuccino.

Thursday night, I joined Kelly's mom's dinner party out at some barn-like bed and breakfast. We sat with Kelly's mom's friends and chatted the evening away. Her friend Kim was telling us about the Alaskan village where her father lived and died, and their communal practices of supporting families through grief. Meanwhile, a bluegrass band with lovely vocal harmony played just behind us. Peppermint ice cream pie.

I leaned on my mom's bed as she woke up from her evening nap (she works nights) and we chatted before I left for Lancaster again. We talked about the things on our minds that mattered. It's funny, sometimes I wonder if I have anything important to say. But talking with Mom makes those trifling thoughts melt away, and what remains feels rock-solid, like it matters. The cat lay on the down blanket, with an occasional wistful sigh. LifeSavers peppermints.

On New Year's Eve with Joella's family, Anita and I talked in the kitchen while the other young people played a game in which players are "shot" and eliminated one by one. Asher came to join us. Our conversation intensified a bit, as we listed single ladies for him to consider. Then Tobias joined us, also "dead" to discuss the pros and cons of casual dating, if there is such a thing. The conversational intensity grew another notch. By this time we were all seated on the kitchen floor, weary from standing. Then Zion. Then Isaac. Then Tirzah. Then Boni and Joella. The conversational intensity had evened out around the entrance of Tirzah, and dropped off around the coming of Isaac. Olive cheese balls.

End Year 23

I sometimes think about how strange it is that agriculture dictates our education system and therefore the rhythm that we use to plan our lives. This means that mid-August is naturally a time of chaotic rearrangement. Kids and young adults shuffle off to school, teachers return to their kitchens and coffee pots to start a new school year after summers which they must relegate to dreamworlds untold. I am, for the first time, in the latter category instead of the former.

But before all of that, comes my birthday. And my birthday this year was incredible...

Let's begin at 10:15 am, when I left LMH in Lachelle and Brian's car, listening exclusively to a very beautiful piece: "The Last Waltz," the perfect blend of beauty and sorrow and change, with other significance attached in other ways. I arrived at Jordan's house to meet Krystle, Shelby, Alyssa, and Jordan. We left for Longwood Gardens together and met Garrett just inside, so we made six.

I've been to Longwood before, but my impressions of this day were something different from ever before. The sun's whole face was laughing. My imagination took over! We marveled at a treehouse; I felt like an elf, finally home. We stood above the Italian water garden; I felt like I was attending a ball, dressed in satin and lace. We stood in the triple fountain, south of the DuPont house; I felt like a duckling, delighted! We ran around the meadow; I felt like the Von Trapp children, set free! We stood under the wrought-iron gazebo above the coy fish; I felt like a goddess on Olympus, everywhere I laid my eyes was mine.

For lunch, we left the gardens and made hamburgers at Garrett's house nearby. Fun. So fun. Summer is cutting tomatoes and watermelon and doing dishes at someone else's house with good friends. The sun went right on laughing. Back to the gardens for the other, more exquisite half. We were walking our legs off by this time.

It's worth mentioning that sometimes when you have a few people together who love the Lord, your fellowship grows. At one point, I counted our group of six and thought, "wait, aren't there seven of us?" It has to be the Holy Spirit who comes and makes seven.

We departed for Jordan's house where we met up with David, pizza, and a fire after sunset. Why not finish with ice cream and conversation? Why not, indeed.

Giving In

Beets are beets:

like meat, but unabashedly vegetable;

loud color, but unexpectedly edible.

They are unwilling to be changed

into something other than beets.

But sweet,

if you are willing to like beets

for beets.

Not Honey

I stayed at home for Joella's home church this morning. Three of us lingered in the kitchen getting hot drinks.

One dear soul asked if we had any honey for her sore throat. I noticed the special jar with the amber liquid, sitting on the shelf looking as though it were very dear to one of the housemates, though I knew not to whom. Per our policy, however, it bore no one's name, officially making it free game. I was sure, therefore, that none of us would begrudge a guest using some of the precious honey.

I brought it down, and two of our guests added it to their tea. One had never tasted honey in tea before, and the other, as I said, had a sore throat, so may not have had the full enjoyment of the honey at any rate. They retired to the living room when Joella came into the kitchen and noticed the jar on the table.

"Isn't that Leah's hair-removal stuff!?" she exclaimed with wide eyes.

Startled I whispered, "What?! No. No, what!? It looks like honey! It's on the shelf where the honey goes! There's no label!"

"It's not honey," Joella responded with equanimity and mortification.

"What is in it?!"

"Just sugar, lemon, and water, I think. Maybe they won't notice. Just please don't give any more to my guests," and she placed it high up on the shelf while I stifled the loud laughter rolling upward in me.

Forgive me, Melissa and Shirley.

Ask Me Why

Me: Becky, you're so good at asking insightful questions. You should ask me why I made two eggs just now.

Becky: Carolyn, why did you have to make two eggs just now?

Me: Why, I'm so glad you asked this! You see, I was only planning on making one egg. But then... A COCKROACH FELL INTO IT!

Becky: [stunned face] ...That's gross. Ew. That's gross.

Me: Sorry, but you asked.