The year was 1981. I was eleven years old and in the 6th grade. Young and impressionable, I walked hesitantly into the Home Economics room at Northern Middle School. My knee socks were pulled up to my knees, my skirt was on straight and my blouse was tucked in neatly. So why was I nervous?
We were going to be placed at tables and this would be our group for the cooking lessons. Believe it or not, I was shy at times and unsure of myself, especially with people I didn't know well, or I felt didn't look at me beyond my "Mennonite-ness". I was not looking forward to being put into a group. Not at all.
But then, there I was, at a table with Jencene (my cousin and best friend!), Kenton (my cousin), Jerry (another cousin) and, if I remember correctly, I think the other person was Ken (who I had known since Kindergarten and we rode the same bus). Whew. I was saved. I could relax. I was still in my comfort zone.
Until....
Until The French Toast Lesson.
French Toast. How hard could this be? I had helped my mother make this dish for Saturday lunches and it didn't seem complicated or unreasonable. But then again, she didn't follow a recipe, she just cooked.
I do not remember the recipe. I just know we had to work as a team in our assigned kitchen cubicle. Maybe there were just too many of us. Maybe there were just too many "Bender's" in the kitchen, too many Mennonites. Whatever the case, our French Toast was not the French Toast the recipe promised.
One side of the toast was burnt.
The other side was raw and drippy with eggs and milk.
With a sprinkle of nutmeg.
After preparing this dish we were supposed to sit down at our properly set table, with all the correct spoons, forks, knives and napkins...and eat our creation.
Eat it? I don't think so. Even if this was part of our grade, I didn't think I could do it. Even sprinkled with powdered sugar, I didn't think I could do it.
I'd rather have a "C".
So, we sat down, made a pretense of eating, all the while plotting how to discreetly get rid of the mess.
The plan: Jerry would take the plate of half burnt/half raw French toast and as he walked past the garbage can, he would put it behind his back and using his hand, slide the stuff into the garbage. Ta-da!
But, as Jerry walked past the garbage can, so did the teacher, and as he scraped the sloppy pile of toast off the plate, he missed the can and down it went onto the floor with a satisfying squooshy splat. The teacher paused, frowning, but did not say anything that I can remember. Jerry just bent down and scooped up the sad pile of toast and deposited it in the trash.
I think I could hear "Taps" playing softly in the distance.
Young and impressionable, my assumption that all Mennonites could cook, was just burnt up in a skillet. What was this? Cooking took work and effort? It didn't just happen as a hereditary gift?
Shocking, I know.
I learned something that day. No, not how to make French toast, but that anything in life that is to be done well, takes practice and effort. Following directions is helpful too, and not assuming that I already know how it's done. I don't remember anything else we made that year in Home Ec, but I remember this day and what I learned.
And you thought Home Ec was just about cooking and sewing didn't you?
Love,
Dianne
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