Google “Home Ec -- I mean Family
Consumer Science -- Christmas Lesson Plans” and what do you get?
Christmas Cookie Lab. Christmas Cookie
Bake Sale. Christmas Cookie Sampler. Christmas Cookie Comparison.
Christmas Cookie Swap. Healthy Christmas Treats (there's one in every
crowd).
Ask the students, right
after they fill out the Spooky Halloween Treat Lab evaluation, what do
they want to do next?
“Make Christmas cookies.”
So when the principal asked me “Would
your classes like to make cookies to serve during semester tests?”
I said yes. (Actually, I gave him the “are you kidding?” look.)
Then I asked my students.
Do you want to bake Christmas cookies?
“Yes!”
For the other students?
“Ummm....”
You can have some, too. YES!
I was feeling pretty confident in their
abilities. After all, they made snacks for a conference-wide, school
administrators' meeting last month. AND had recipe requests. All
semester these kids have done incredible work in the kitchens. Sure we hit a rough spot with the “healthier options” recipes, but
I think whole wheat Snickerdoodles are an acquired taste.
Some students have… contributed more
than others. Some have... put forth more effort than others. But each
of these students has made me incredibly proud at least once this
semester.
All that ended with The Great Christmas
Cookie Catastrophe.
I'm not blaming the kids. I should have
known better than to use untested recipes (stupid Google search). I
should have watched the oven timer more closely (and made sure they
used it).
I should not have tried to buy
Billy Joel concert tickets on-line as soon as they went on sale while trying to supervise the creation of a batch of
festive, fudge-brownie cookies.
I felt like Goldilocks. One batch of cookies was
over-cooked. One batch was under-cooked. One batch was... why did I
approve an anise-flavored cookie anyway? And there is not enough time
in a 45-minute class period for the students to do all the baking and
cleaning.
To top it all off: I didn't get a
ticket for the Billy Joel concert in Minneapolis.
Ouch. Way to kick a girl when she's
down, Target Center ticket program. (It's not sold out yet, but I
haven't liked the “best available” tickets they've “suggested”
for me. I'm gambling here. Really, you think there's not gonna be one
single, odd seat left on the floor? )
Final. Straw.
Camel's back? Broken.
So I stood, forlorn, in the kitchens as the
students filed in for homeroom. I was stressed, surrounded by piles of inedible cookies, mountains of dirty dishes
and flour-covered counters. And I was ticket-less.
There were tears.
Yeah. No. Really.
I cried.
Over cookies.
It was a brief, silent, ragged breathing,
just a couple of tears overflowing type of cry. Not my proudest
moment.
Wound. Too. Tight.
But one sweet boy talked me down. “Are
you ok, Mrs. Salemink?”
He helped clean up the mess – a mess
he didn't make! – and helped me sort out and salvage more cookies
than I thought possible.
Santa's weepy elf might have to fill in
a little around the edges (I'm just not sure high schoolers are ready
for anise-flavored cookies. I'm not sure any one is, no matter what
the Albuquerque Convention and Visitors Bureau says.) But it looks
like the Home Ec – I mean Family Consumer Science – classes will
help make semester tests (and Christmas – I mean winter – break)
just a little brighter at West Branch High School.
Now if the Target Center would just cut
to the chase and pony up a front row, center stage ticket we could
put this whole ugly scene behind us.
And have a Merry Christmas. Cookie.
