5th Grade Fiesta Day − 1 November, 1991
It was rare for the three 5th grade classes to interact, but on Fiesta Day, the promise of a delicious meal and kindergarten-esque ciesta created strong grade unity.
Each student in each of the three classes was assigned a food to bring, to be assembled like Voltron into one enormous banquet of enchiladas. At this point in my childhood, regular supermarket food was a rarity. Rather, our meals consisted of local fruits, organic fruit leathers, soy milk malteds, and whichever nuts the organic food co-operative opted for this month. Therefore, I was nervous about drawing a food assignment that my mom, still mocked by a friend for grinding her own flour out of whole wheat berries, would be unwilling to help me bring. Imagine my relief when I was assigned to bring the ubiquitously banal tomato sauce.
Now, imagine my feeling when I woke up that morning for school to find not the jars of tomato sauce that any other family would have considered commonplace. Instead, sitting on the countertop above me, was a recycled yogurt 1-gallon container, filled with thick tomato paste and a dubious assortment of seasonings.
As my mom filled the shameful puree with tap-water to create a smoother, more sauce-like blend, I imagined what my reception would be like that morning in class:
Teacher: Jake, is this tomato sauce, or... yogurt?!
Me (opening lid): It's tomato sauce Mrs. Jones.
Teacher: Close that disgusting container, and think about what you've done. Now we can't make any enchiladas. You've ruined the Fiesta Day!
Little did I know, but things would soon become even worse. I can't remember how it happened, whether it was my mom handing the container down to me, or me never getting a solid grip, but the tomato mixture plummeted to the ground and landed with a sloshy, plasticy smack. Half of the puree had squelched out and formed a mountainous mess on the tile kitchen floor.
Most parents would have given in at that point, stopped in the market on the way into school, and picked me up a nice new can of tomato sauce - but in my family, this was merely a fantasy. My mother scooped the untainted mountaintops of the puree back into the yogurt container, added some extra tap-water, and securely handed me the yogurt container to escort into the classroom.
In the classroom, I was able to slyly place my container on the ingredients table, and slide innocently away. Fiesta Day was a success and the enchiladas were incredible. And to this day, for better or worse, I find it hard to let good food - or not so good food - go to waste.
Each student in each of the three classes was assigned a food to bring, to be assembled like Voltron into one enormous banquet of enchiladas. At this point in my childhood, regular supermarket food was a rarity. Rather, our meals consisted of local fruits, organic fruit leathers, soy milk malteds, and whichever nuts the organic food co-operative opted for this month. Therefore, I was nervous about drawing a food assignment that my mom, still mocked by a friend for grinding her own flour out of whole wheat berries, would be unwilling to help me bring. Imagine my relief when I was assigned to bring the ubiquitously banal tomato sauce.
Now, imagine my feeling when I woke up that morning for school to find not the jars of tomato sauce that any other family would have considered commonplace. Instead, sitting on the countertop above me, was a recycled yogurt 1-gallon container, filled with thick tomato paste and a dubious assortment of seasonings.
As my mom filled the shameful puree with tap-water to create a smoother, more sauce-like blend, I imagined what my reception would be like that morning in class:
Teacher: Jake, is this tomato sauce, or... yogurt?!
Me (opening lid): It's tomato sauce Mrs. Jones.
Teacher: Close that disgusting container, and think about what you've done. Now we can't make any enchiladas. You've ruined the Fiesta Day!
Little did I know, but things would soon become even worse. I can't remember how it happened, whether it was my mom handing the container down to me, or me never getting a solid grip, but the tomato mixture plummeted to the ground and landed with a sloshy, plasticy smack. Half of the puree had squelched out and formed a mountainous mess on the tile kitchen floor.
Most parents would have given in at that point, stopped in the market on the way into school, and picked me up a nice new can of tomato sauce - but in my family, this was merely a fantasy. My mother scooped the untainted mountaintops of the puree back into the yogurt container, added some extra tap-water, and securely handed me the yogurt container to escort into the classroom.
In the classroom, I was able to slyly place my container on the ingredients table, and slide innocently away. Fiesta Day was a success and the enchiladas were incredible. And to this day, for better or worse, I find it hard to let good food - or not so good food - go to waste.
