Master Iron Chef UnWrapped Kitchen Throwdown

The following is an actual, honest-to-goodness assignment that I am going to give my students tomorrow. By doing this I believe I am incorporating 20th Century Learning benchmarks, facilitated by technological interface practices, in a cross-curricular, hands-on learning environment that reaches out to marginalized students to better help them achieve their full potential. Or it's just a cheap ploy to entertain myself while creating a fun lesson plan with marginal learning outcomes but maximal blog-post-ability. Ish.

The Great

Convenience Mix

VS.

Homemade

SMACKDOWN

(AKA: Mrs. Salemink is Cleaning Out the Cupboard)

Why?

1. Foods & Nutrition 2 is wrapping up a unit on convenience foods, and Baking is learning about... well, baking. Duh. Really? Do I need a reason? Have I ever had a good reason for any assignment? There was that one lesson about that one thing... but other than that one.... We've done similar things before, but never on this scale. This... will... be... EPIC.
2. Mrs. Salemink has had 4 hours of sleep from 6:30 a.m. Saturday to 7:32 p.m. (oops, 8:14 p.m.) Sunday, and is not expecting to get to bed until at least 10 p.m. And she is really, really old. She is not able to go without sleep for this long any more, people. Give her a break.

3. The vast majority of you are probably going to be tired and cranky in class on Monday as well. The rest of you get to reap the benefits of our poor sleep-management skills.
4. We are having yet another “not normal” week of class scheduling, and I'm running low on creativity. Hard to believe, but true.
5. Because I'm the teacher and I said so. What are they going to do? Fire me?

The Assignment:

1. EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOU (yes, YOU! BY YOUR OWNSELF. Without a partner.) will go online and find a HOMEMADE, COMPLETELY FROM SCRATCH RECIPE for one of the following cake/brownie/quickbreads from the provided list. You WILL (BY YOUR OWNSELF. Without a partner.) email me a link to said HOMEMADE, COMPLETELY FROM SCRATCH RECIPE by the end of the class period. *See Random Rules and Frequently Asked Questions section below.

The Smackdown:

After democratically selecting (you will vote, I will over-rule) 2 box mixes and their homemade recipe counterpart:

1. Each class will be divided into 4 kitchen groups. Two groups will prepare the box mixes. Two groups will prepare the homemade.
2. If you can't come to an agreement on who's doing what, I will randomly select you. Or we may do this again and switch roles. Depends on how much you annoy me.

Random Rules:

1. Box mix selection (and thus homemade recipe as well) will be first come, first served. In other words Foods 2 gets a better deal. Life is not fair. Get over it.
2. YOU WILL, EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOU (yes, YOU! BY YOUR OWNSELF. Without a partner.) will go online and find a HOMEMADE, COMPLETELY FROM SCRATCH RECIPE BY THE END OF THE CLASS PERIOD. Or you will receive an “I.” Your grade point will crumble, you will never graduate high school, you will develop a severe case of acne, “bacne,” halitosis, pit-stank and athletes foot and you will wake up with the over-all funky body odor of the average, post-gym 7^th grader, for all of eternity. No amount of showers shall cleanse you. You shall become a pariah amongst your people. Look it up.
   You may also turn into a zombie. And not the fun kind. You will become the really icky, oozy kind that everyone can outrun. You will be locked in a cage where people will poke at you with sticks. They will make countless YouTube videos and SnapChat stories about you and you will never collect a cent of royalties or receive any “likes.”
   If you are lucky, you will spend the rest of your life living in a van, down by the river. By your self. Not even the other zombies – or stinky 7^th graders – will associate with you.
3. You will not whine.
4. YOU WILL DO ALL YOUR DISHES or you will receive an “I” and the consequences will be the same as #3 above.

Frequently Asked Questions:

1. Do we have to? Yes.
2. Why? Because I said so.
3. But, Mrs. Salaaaaameeeeeenk, I'm tired. So am I. And I'm older and crankier than you.
4. But... but... but... Nip it. Nip it! You can't see me, but I'm making the universal “nip it” sign with my hand as if I could grab your little pouty duck lips and hold them shut. With superglue. Or DuckTape. I'm not picky.
5. Quit rolling your eyes. That's not #TheBEARway.
6. How d... Because I'm psychic. Now get to work.

How I have never been named Teacher of the Year is completely beyond me.

Fun and Photos in the Chili Chilly Extreme 5K

Last November when I ran the Chili Chilly Extreme 5K (Nov. 30, 2014, post) I got so caught up in trying to cover it for the local newspaper that I forgot my number one rule for running:

Have fun.

I mean, I did have fun.... But I was so worried about everyone else finishing and leaving before I could take pictures or get quotes that I didn't really have fun.

So, when they moved the Chili Chilly to March, I had to try again. But this time I wanted to focus on having fun instead of focusing on photos.

Which is a really good thing, because now I'm thinkin' pictures during a race – especially an “extreme” one – might be a really bad idea. Or a really, really good source of blackmail material.

For example...

The Chili Chilly starts on semi-solid ground before going off-road through a field. The established trail quickly turned into a slippery, slidey, bog of sucky, sticky mud, so I decided to blaze a new, more solid route by doing a “high, wide knees” run to straddle the corn stubble next to the trail.

The only problem is that I am about as graceful as a water buffalo when running on dry, solid surfaces. Add in the slippery-slidey mud and high, wide knees and I was about as graceful as a drunken water buffalo.

Then, just for kicks and giggles, let's say there were cockleburs mixed in with the stubble. The stubble that I was straddling.

There I was, trying to run and pick cockleburs off my crotch when I looked up and realized I was quickly approaching a volunteer who was directing us out of the field and into the woods.

And laughing. Really, really hard.

I was really, really glad he did not have a camera.

Half a mile later I looked down and saw a gigantic spider climbing up my thigh. My forward progress was eclipsed by my skyward progress as I flailed about trying to dislodge the... mass of cockleburs.

“Not. A. Spider.” I explained to the policeman who was directing traffic on this portion of the course.

And laughing. Really, really hard.

Really, really glad he did not have a camera.

A few hundred yards later the trail ran smack-dab into a huge, fallen tree tagged with a sign indicating we could go over or under.

“This one's for you!” race course designer and evil mastermind Jerry cheerfully announced. Note to self: Quit taunting evil mastermind race course designers.

Faced with the option of hard or harder, I, of course, chose harder. Placing my hands on top of the log (about chest high), I gave a mighty jump, hoisted myself up, and flung one leg over. Relieved to have more or less made it to the top, I lay there straddling the trunk.

Then I realized I still had to get back down... before Jerry could quit laughing and grab a camera.

I managed the dismount with all the grace of a drunken water buffalo and scrambled off up the trail. A couple of twists and turns and 30 yards later the trail circled back to a small rise beside the Sequia obstacle. I was just about to call out to Jerry and tell him how glad I was that he didn't have a camera when SCHWA-LIP my feet shot out from under me and I slid down the trail on my cockelbur.

Really, really glad.

The final, big obstacle involved sliding down a creek bank to wade across the Mississippi River... or maybe it was just a creek. A really, really cold creek that was ankle deep on one side and chest deep on the opposite side.

The drunken water buffalo was finally in her element.

I am really, really glad there were no cameras to prove otherwise.

After the race I was trying to clean off the worst of the muck when a chipper girl from the youngest age group asked if I had gone through the creek.

“Of course!” I answered. “That was the best part!”

“I know!” she said, excitedly. “Some people skipped it, but me and my friends sprinted to get there!”

An ear-to-ear smile lit up her mud-covered face and she laughed really, really hard.

She really, really had fun.

And I really, really wished I had a camera.

Nerd Shoes

I am in love.

With a pair of shoes.

Slip ons, to be precise.

They literally... wait for it... slip on. My feet. Without tying.

I had a friend say “Oh yeah, I have a pair like that. I hardly ever have to tie them.”

I had to get all “Oh, No-O” on his feet. (Imagine this accompanied by a horrified expression, vigorous head shake and full-on finger wag.) “You don't understand. I don't have to tie these...EH-VER. ”

Because they... you guessed it... slip on!

I just hold my foot over the... ummm... open part where you put your foot... and VIOLA! They slip on!

It's like freakin' magic.

I don't have to bend over and wiggle the shoe onto my foot. I don't have to touch them at all with my hands. I don't even have to think about it. BAM!

Nooooo touchy!

Nooooo bendy!

Just slippy.

On-y.

There are no laces! None! Nada! Whatsoever!

No tying! Never! Nunca! Whensoever!

No annoying Velcro-rippy sounds and icky balls of fuzz stuck to the Velcro, either.

In a word: Genius.

In two words: Effing Genius.

Why has it taken me almost fifty... I mean almost thirty... years to find out about these miracles of modern footwear?

I know what you're thinking and NO. These are not sandals.

These are NOT dollar store flip-flops, schlip-schlap-schlip-schlapping down the hallway while they eat away at that tender skin between the little piggie who is going to market and the little piggie who is staying at home.

These are not slides which are suprisingly comfortable, yet leave all your piggies exposed to the cruel weather elements and whatever you might drop on them. (Trust me.)

These aren't some high-heeled, toe-crushing, Sex-Kitten, F***-Me, Hooker-Pumps that leave me teetering precariously down the sidewalk. (Because let's face it, I can barely walk in flats without tripping over empty space. Sad but true.)

These are not slippers. They are SLIPPERS ON STEROIDS. These are slippers that I can wear ANY. FREAKIN'. WHERE. I. WANT.

Because they are slip-ons. Not slipp-ers.

These are honest-to-God, full-coverage, fat-soled, hipster-souled, tennis shoes. Ish. With attitude.

Because these bad boys are leopard print. 

They aren't particularly comfortable for extended wear (ie: farther than from the house to the car or for more than five minutes). But they were on sale. So... there's that.

Did I mention the leopard print? Jealous much? 

Ohhhh, I remember how we mocked that boy in high school. You know, the one who wore the slip-on, plain, black, elasticized,  tenny runners.

Dude. Dude.

I am so sorry.

You were ahead of your time.

And I believe you are now an astrophysicst, (or a geneticist, or something science-y-ist). So. You know. No hard feelings, right? No "accidentally" blowing me up or sending the IRS my way, right? (Not that I Google-stalked you or anything. Who's the slip-on wearing, techno-nerd now ? Huh? HUH? Bazinga!)

And that's the problem. Back in the day, slip-on shoes were soooo... for lack of a better word, nerdy.

Now I know the truth: They are miraculous, labor saving devices that go on your feet!

Because I'm all like, “I don't have time to tie my shoes before heading out to the gym since I just finished makin' dinner and the garlic bread has two more minutes don'tletitburnorI'llkillyou, but I am throwing one more freakin' load of laundry in the washer before I go and – oops – scoopin' the litter box because – GoodGod – what has the cat been eatin' and how the hellcanIbelateagainforcraps'sake?”

I mean, I'm all like “I am pinpointing the position of that incoming asteroid which will seal earth's doom while simultaniously curing cancer, decoding Beethoven's Fifth and calculating Pi to its not not-so irrational (yeah, you heard me) final (that's right, final) number. Aaaand figuring out who gives a rat's ass why anyone cares which one is Kourtney Kardashian.

Because I am THAT cool.

In my nerd shoes.

Prom-ah Mahna

As if February in Iowa wasn't already miserable enough with its agonizingly endless stretch of cold, blustery days, a new form of torture has emerged sealing Feb's fate as my least fave:

The Promposal.

In case you've been living under a rock (or don't know any high school students), it is no longer enough just to ask someone to go to prom with you. These days you have to make a grand, over-the-top, extremely public statement – the grander, the more over-the-top, the public-er, the better.

I don't know why I dislike promposals so much. I do so loves me a bad pun, and the vast majority of promposals involve bad word play – “Don't be 'chicken,' 'shake' your booty with me at prom,” accompanied by a chicken sandwich and milkshake, for example. I have to admit I kinda liked that one, proving once again that the way to my heart is through my stomach and bad jokes.

But after hearing about it from Every. Single. One. of my students it lost some of its appeal. (Note to self: Never, ever tell students my pet peeves again.)

No, no, nononono. NO! No more promposal talk in my room!” I growled.

“But Mrs. Saaaal-ahhh-miiink, how did you ask someone to prom when you were in school?” my students asked, all innocence and guile, sensing a way to postpone the day's lesson.

“We would have walked up to someone in the hallway and said 'Hey, you wanna go to prom?' End of story.” 

At least that's how I think it went down.

I wouldn't know.

Not that I'm bitter or anything.

I did get asked to prom by a junior boy when I was a freshman, although I don't actually remember him asking me. I think it happened a little more like this:

Boy's Mom (to my Mom): “I have determined that my son, who is extremely shy, needs a date for prom. Your daughter, who is also extremely shy, is tolerably good looking and does not have a police record that I know of. They should go together.”

My Mom: “Your son seems to be well behaved, reasonably attractive and is significantly taller than my daughter. I think this is a good idea.”

My Mom (to Me): “You are going to the prom with Boy. You can wear heels.”

As far as I know no livestock were exchanged, although I did get a nifty wrist corsage.

Boy and I did go to prom and we had as good a time as two casual acquaintances can have while sitting in a crepe paper streamer festooned high school gym listening to extremely loud music played by an extremely bad but cheap band and enjoying luke-warm punch and stale cookies. We spoke at least 20 words to each other, which was probably the extent of our conversations in high school (as we both really were extremely shy).

Today's promposals involve food, balloons, posters, burma-shave style signs, flowers, candy, body paint, gifts of jewelry, clothes and/or shoes. And they are made in front of as many witnesses as possible. Whether they are posted on Insta-Twit-Book, or they take place in the school cafeteria, at a basketball game or show choir contest, nothing says “I kinda like you and I think we should spend an exorbitant amount of money on a dress, shoes, tux, hair-styling, tanning, mani-pedi, limo, dinner and photos to attend a high school dance” quite like asking someone to prom in front of 200 or so of your closest strangers.

Not that I'm bitter.

I just wish the kids would put that much creativity and effort into their homework.

Which brings us to the rumor suggesting that many promposals are actually engineered by the students' mothers, and not the students themselves.

Proving once again that the more things change, the more they stay the same.

Not that I'm bitter.

Herding the Cats to Compassion

#1000Speak -- 1000 bloggers posting about compassion and kindness to flood the Blogosphere with good February 20, 2015. Search for the hashtag and support the cause, please!

I'm one of those teachers who sometimes (?) takes a roundabout way to get to the point. I don't mind letting the students get me off topic (sometimes). I love it when they inadvertently come up with a perfect (or not so perfect) example of what I want them to understand.

“The point is, and I do have a point...” I say, steering our totally random discussion towards a “teachable moment.” I like to think I toss the idea out there, and just keep ooching, nudging, imperceptibly herding the cats to the conclusion I'm hoping for (or somewhere near it, anyway).

But I have not yet found a way to lead them to a meaningful discussion of “compassion.” At least not as it concerns “virtual” conversations.

I’m amazed at how accepting they are of other students who are differently-abled. They don't bat an eye when one of their classmates who has Down Syndrome needs extra help – they just pitch in and help. For the most part they are (at least when teachers are around) pretty considerate kids.

I'm not saying they're angels. Oh, my goodness, no.

Sometimes they (we all) say stupid things without thinking. And sometimes they say those stupid things without realizing what they are really saying. Some of those nasty, hateful words have lost their power, which may or may not be a good thing. We say them out of habit, without thinking, not to purposely hurt.

But absence of malice is not the same thing as compassion.

And while students with learning disabilities are protected, those with no obvious disadvantage are fair game. Particularly when it comes to electronic conversations.

During just the past two months at my school we've had at least four incidents blown totally out of proportion because the majority of the discussion took place not face-to-face in the hallway, but thumb-to-thumb on cell-phones.

During the most recent “Twitter-fight” I channeled the cranky English teacher who hides just below the surface of my mellow Home Ec teacher facade. I told one class “You know, back in the day (cue the eye rolls and heavy sighing), if we had a beef with someone we actually had to (melodramatic gasp for emphasis) talk to them in the hallway... or maybe write them a nasty note on real paper and pass it to them during study hall, or stuff it through the vent on their locker door. We couldn't (ahem), sit one table away from them during lunch and 'twit' nasty things back and forth.”

I was hoping for a meaningful discussion about how we don't talk to each other anymore, we talk at each other. What I got was a report of the number of retweets, favorites and subtweets (whatever that means) that sprouted from the original offending tweet, as well as a defense of Wronged Party A (and a defense of Wronged Party B from the next class).

What I got was a synopsis of the actual, real-world fight that could have – but did not – break out once the twitter-tweeters actually did turn around and talk to each other.

“My point is,” I said, trying to herd the cats, “do you think it’s possible that neither one actually threw a punch because they were having (melodramatic gasp again) a face-to-face conversation?”

I saw a flicker of comprehension as my students considered that maybe, just maybe, there were some things you would tweet without thinking, but you wouldn’t say in person.

“Adding 'LOL' or 'JK' or a funny face emoji isn’t the same as the non-verbal communication – the facial expressions, the vocal inflections, the body language – of a face-to-face conversation,” I said, pushing the point.

But my students were already on their cell-phones, checking for updates on the latest drama.

Next time I’ll tweet them the lesson.

JK.

Nein-One-One

I have a friend who doesn't believe in emergencies.

Do I really need to say that he's male, young, single and childless? In other words, he's free from the causes of most emergencies.

He also plans out his days with military precision and is able to stick to that schedule.

I plan out my days with the precision of a hyperactive rabbit on crack and I stick to that schedule for at least 30 seconds. Most of my days are a series of emergencies relieved by the occasional catastrophe. If I can get to lunch with just one major schedule change, I consider myself lucky.

In the interest of full disclosure, I should add that my friend has built his own successful small business, so the potential for emergencies is certainly there. Not to mention that he has to deal with me, so emergency-by-association is a statistical sure-thing.

In the interest of full, full disclosure, what he actually said was that he doesn't believe that every emergency has to be accompanied by a high level of drama.

Well, that just lacks a certain... dramatic flair.

At first I chalked it all up to his maleness, youthfulness, singleness, child-free-ness, and general Zen-like nature. Then I realized most of my emergencies aren't emergencies at all.

Well, I mean, they are emergencies. They just aren't my emergencies.

They only become my emergencies when I jump in with both feet to help. And they only become my emergencies when I rearrange my schedule to accommodate them, causing my back-log of things-to-do to become even more back-loggier.

Still, that doesn't explain the racing heart. The panicking. The worrying. The levitating.

Much to my chagrin, I realized I am a a drama resonator.

When you call me in a tizzy over your latest emergency and need my help I will abandon my plans in order to help you out. I can't help it. It's what I do. It's how I'm programed. It's a physical and psychological need. I don't mind. Really. I want to help. I have to help. Please let me help!

The helping isn't the problem. The tizz is.

When I offer to help, I also absorb a little of your anxiety. I tuck it away deep inside me where it starts to vibrate. Then my hyperactive planning rabbit taps his his lucky foot and shifts the schedule. Now I really have a thumping baseline.

As I fall further behind in my plans – meetings are scheduled, rescheduled and run late, a call goes out for volunteers, errands need to be run, appointments made and kept, deadlines shift and come due – my growing collection of anxieties join forces. They plug in the amplifier, turn it up to 11, and throw away the knob. After a while I feel like they will burst from my chest like that little critter from Alien, or my entire body will vibrate with such intensity I start to levitate.

I usually lean toward levitation.

The Queen Mother knew this about me (I had to learn it somewhere). Once, years ago, someone commented to her about how I remained calm when all about me was chaos. She just smiled and told them I was like a duck – unruffled above the waterline, but paddling like heck under water.

The problem with being a duck is that most people – myself included – don't realize when I'm one wrong-flavored tic-tac moment away from an epic meltdown. So if I go all head-spinning, pea-soup spitting, full-out wack-o on you, don't worry.

It's not you, personally. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. The storm will pass quickly.

On the other hand, if I seem really, really calm....

Feb U

With all due respect to the great writers and philosophers...

February is the cruelest month.... The land lies dead, our memories dull. The warm blanket of forgetful snow shows bleak, broken grass in patches of despair. All hope is lost! Alas! Spring – and hopes of a Cubbie World Championship – are both denied. Cardinal fans needn't feel so smug.

One must be careful these days to avoid hyperbole, to take oneself too seriously. When one's extremities are frozen by a mere glance out yon window, there is shelter under red rock. With Travelocity, Expedia, and Hotwiredotcom, Kansas City becomes a tropic port.

February is the winter of our discontent.... February is the “not quite time” time. Holiday parties are finally over. The decorations are put away, except for that creepy Elf on a Shelf hiding between the couch cushions or at the far edge of the bookshelf watching... watching....

We half-heartedly throw Valentines' hearts around, making much ado about nothing. Filling up the nothing with something until... until.. until what?

We make plans. Plans for Spring and Summer, which will surely come, will they not? Home Shows, Garden Shows, RV Shows, Boat Shows, Car Shows, Motorcycle Shows, Dog Shows, Cat Shows, Hamster Shows and Dust Bunny Shows. The warmth generated by the over-coated masses, the narcotic effects of a day under flourescent lights, the smell of the fuel-oil, the roar of the generators ... all do little to dispell the fact that you have miles to go 'till you find your car. And it's all uphill. In the snow.

Both ways.

And the wind. The wind. The wind.

February is the best of times, it is the worst of times.... Mother Nature teases us relentlessly with brilliant sunshine, made even more brilliant by myriad tiny mirrors of accumulated snow. Her blinding radiance is accompanied by nose hair-freezing, sub-zero temperatures and breath-stealing wind-chills.

She is a tri-polar witch, melting snow today only to freeze it tomorrow and cover it with more snow overnight. Except for those patches of melty-freezy-mix lurking in the shadows on 40-degree days, masquerading as wet pavement, waiting to illustrate just how slick snot on a doorknob really is.

Go South, my friend, go South! Go South in February, while Snowbirds pack for migration North and Spring Breakers dream of beer-filled pools. While hoteliers ponder empty rooms and falling revenues. Go South while gas is cheap, and the last of the Christmas bills are pending. Go South before you regain your senses, realize your credit card is maxed-out, or try on last year's swimsuit.

Before the next freezing rain falls.

Go South.

February is the foulest Dementor,  draining peace, hope and happiness.... When the first snow fell (waaaaaayyyy back) in November, Facebook lit up with humorous photos, videos and cartoons of how we were tired of winter. By February all we can do is recycle old posts with a weak "lol." Caps Lock is too much effort.

We muster enough anger to curse the groundhog for a day or two, then slip back into our Febru-stupor. We rage, rage against the dying of the ligh…ehhhht. Why bother? Even daylight savings doesn't return until mid-March.

There may be some places where February is peachy-freakin' keen, but Eastern Iowa is not one of them.

So, with all due respect...

Feb-U.

Rary.

Wake me when it's March.