We did a class meeting today on Internet Safety. It's an annual event, the counselors are tasked by the county to design a lesson to engage the students in a conversation about making wise choices in this cyber-era. I don't know why, but teaching the same lesson five times back-to-back is way easier than sitting through one. I'll have to ponder that fact, but it did give me the chance to consider the world that these kids are growing up in.
There are several 2-3 minute videos making the rounds in education these days about that world and how we are getting our students ready for it. Every one that I've seen has highlighted competition between the US and India and China... evidently, both of these countries have more honor students than we have students, and obviously that fact is supposed to scare the hell out of us (whoever we are) as well as motivate us into action. My God! Those Chinese and Indian honor students are going to... please fill in the blank, because really? I can't.
I guess the big question posed by all of these productions is whether or not we're adequately preparing kids for their future given how quickly the world is changing. I suppose it's natural to worry, but thirty-five years ago when I was in middle school, this world we live in now was undreamt of, too, and it seems like most of us have been able to adapt.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Note to Self
We had a modified schedule today for the all-school science fair, and as a result I ended up with a mixed group of students for about 45 minutes at the end of the day. It had been a stressful few weeks for them-- working diligently on their science fair projects, preparing for the presentation piece, and then actually displaying their board and going through the judging process. We had some academic activities planned for the last part of the day, but it was clear that such structure wasn't really appropriate, at least not for my group, and so I abandoned the Challenge-24 practice in favor of vintage cartoons, independent reading, and games.
It's not often that I get a chance to actually play with the kids, but today I could. I always forget what an effective way to build relationships it is to simply sit down at a table and play a couple of hands of Uno or a game of Bananagrams. Kids invariably love it when an adult takes the time to play with them, and it's really fun, too.
It's not often that I get a chance to actually play with the kids, but today I could. I always forget what an effective way to build relationships it is to simply sit down at a table and play a couple of hands of Uno or a game of Bananagrams. Kids invariably love it when an adult takes the time to play with them, and it's really fun, too.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Many Hands Make Light Work
Savannah and her mom stopped by while I was cooking dinner tonight. Savannah is three, and verrrry fond of Heidi, so Laura, her mom, asked if she could hang out for 5 minutes or so to get her Heidi-fix, and that was cool with us. The last time she was here I got to show off my mad play-doh skills, and she was hoping for a little more of that, I think, but instead, I gave her the chance to apply what she had learned.
I was making sweet potato gnocchi, and an extra pair of tiny hands was just what I needed to make the task go a little faster. We got down the pink poodle apron we keep on the hook for the little girls in our lives, and Savannah was stunned by its beauty and novelty. Dinner momentarily took a backseat to the obligatory photo-shoot.
It wasn't too long, however, before she was standing on the kitchen stool rolling the soft orange dough into snakes and using a baker's bench knife to cut it. It was my job to slip the gnocchi into the simmering water before we continued with the next batch. "Why are we doing this?" she asked.
"It's dinner," I told her.
"My dinner?" She was a little concerned.
"Not unless you want some," I said, and, completely uninterested in actually eating the product of her labor, Savannah untied her apron and headed home about 10 minutes later.
I was making sweet potato gnocchi, and an extra pair of tiny hands was just what I needed to make the task go a little faster. We got down the pink poodle apron we keep on the hook for the little girls in our lives, and Savannah was stunned by its beauty and novelty. Dinner momentarily took a backseat to the obligatory photo-shoot.
It wasn't too long, however, before she was standing on the kitchen stool rolling the soft orange dough into snakes and using a baker's bench knife to cut it. It was my job to slip the gnocchi into the simmering water before we continued with the next batch. "Why are we doing this?" she asked.
"It's dinner," I told her.
"My dinner?" She was a little concerned.
"Not unless you want some," I said, and, completely uninterested in actually eating the product of her labor, Savannah untied her apron and headed home about 10 minutes later.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Things That Come Back to Us
I read When You Reach Me by Rebecca Stead last summer, so didn't I feel ahead of the curve when it won the Newbury this year? I liked it for many reasons-- it was about sixth graders, it took place in the 70s, the main character loved A Wrinkle in Time. It spoke to both who I was and who I am. For those who are not familiar, one of the subplots involves a character who is practicing to go on the 20,000 Dollar Pyramid, and so every chapter is titled like one of those six blocks in the pyramid. I appreciated that, too.
Lately, my sister-in-law and her brothers have been sorting through their parents' house. Since Judy died in October, they've moved Vic to an assisted-living group home for people with Alzheimer's, and the house must be emptied either to sell or to rent. I've written before about the breadth of their possessions, and I know that determining what to sell, what to trash, and what to give away is a huge job. This morning I walked toward my classroom door to find a bag of things propped against it. My sister-in-law works in the same school, and she had left it there for me.
Inside were some cookie tins that I will happily refill and pass along, a snow gauge that we gave to her dad one year for Christmas that will find a new home in Buffalo, and a Twelfth Night cake mold that we bought for Judy. She was always one to embrace a new celebration, and for years we talked about trying to start the tradition of a Twelfth Night party complete with neighborhood bonfire. It turned out that although she and I were loathe to let the holidays go, most others were not, and so the cake pan came back to me in its original box.
Maybe next year?
Lately, my sister-in-law and her brothers have been sorting through their parents' house. Since Judy died in October, they've moved Vic to an assisted-living group home for people with Alzheimer's, and the house must be emptied either to sell or to rent. I've written before about the breadth of their possessions, and I know that determining what to sell, what to trash, and what to give away is a huge job. This morning I walked toward my classroom door to find a bag of things propped against it. My sister-in-law works in the same school, and she had left it there for me.
Inside were some cookie tins that I will happily refill and pass along, a snow gauge that we gave to her dad one year for Christmas that will find a new home in Buffalo, and a Twelfth Night cake mold that we bought for Judy. She was always one to embrace a new celebration, and for years we talked about trying to start the tradition of a Twelfth Night party complete with neighborhood bonfire. It turned out that although she and I were loathe to let the holidays go, most others were not, and so the cake pan came back to me in its original box.
Maybe next year?
Sunday, January 24, 2010
The Secret's in the Sauce
The smell of apples and ruminating on ethnic food reminds me of a story. Could it have been 20 years ago? Ah, indeed it was. A new Thai restaurant opened in our neighborhood. The owner was a friend of a friend and the place quickly became a favorite. One dish we particularly liked was kai yang: a chicken breast on the bone, marinated and grilled, and served with sticky rice, slices of carrots and cucumbers, and a spicy sauce.
I asked Jimmy, my Thai friend at work, how to make it, and he gave me a recipe for the marinade, but brought a bottle of mang-da sauce the next day. "This is what you serve with it," he said. "Even in Thailand, hardly anybody makes it at home; it's like ketchup." That summer, kai yang with mang-da sauce was a staple of our dinner parties. Our guests would rave about the combination, and many evenings found us lounging at our outdoor table in the moonlight speculating about what was in the secret sauce. The label was no help; written mostly in Thai, the ingredients list in English simply read mang-da, water, hot peppers, and salt. The sauce itself was brownish-red, a puree with flecks of peppers and something else. It was spicy but complex, and here is where we all had our pet theories. What was mang-da? Animal, mineral, or vegetable? John insisted that it tasted of apples, but I found it a little briny, like dried shrimp.
On and on we debated, until finally it occurred to me to ask Jimmy. He laughed and uncharacteristically referred the question. The ladies who worked in the pantry, doing all the cold prep, were mostly Thai and Vietnamese, and their lead was a woman named Supatra. That is who he told me to ask. Jimmy watched curiously as I approached her and asked my question. She laughed, too, but a little nervously. "This flavor is very good, but very strong," she started. "In my village we like it very much." Her hesitation was beginning to worry me a little.
"Go on, " I urged her. Finally she came out with it-- mang da was a gigantic, 2 1/2 inch water beetle that people in northern Thailand roasted and ground as a seasoning. I realized that I had seen them in the freezer section of the Asian market, an icy block of frozen cockroaches; in fact I was quite sure that I had pulled them out of there, grimacing in disgust and wondering who would ever eat them.
Turns out, it was me. Later, when I asked the guy who owned the restaurant about it, though, he was offended that we would think that he would serve such a peasant sauce in his establishment. He was from Bangkok, he informed me, where they had much higher standards.
I asked Jimmy, my Thai friend at work, how to make it, and he gave me a recipe for the marinade, but brought a bottle of mang-da sauce the next day. "This is what you serve with it," he said. "Even in Thailand, hardly anybody makes it at home; it's like ketchup." That summer, kai yang with mang-da sauce was a staple of our dinner parties. Our guests would rave about the combination, and many evenings found us lounging at our outdoor table in the moonlight speculating about what was in the secret sauce. The label was no help; written mostly in Thai, the ingredients list in English simply read mang-da, water, hot peppers, and salt. The sauce itself was brownish-red, a puree with flecks of peppers and something else. It was spicy but complex, and here is where we all had our pet theories. What was mang-da? Animal, mineral, or vegetable? John insisted that it tasted of apples, but I found it a little briny, like dried shrimp.
On and on we debated, until finally it occurred to me to ask Jimmy. He laughed and uncharacteristically referred the question. The ladies who worked in the pantry, doing all the cold prep, were mostly Thai and Vietnamese, and their lead was a woman named Supatra. That is who he told me to ask. Jimmy watched curiously as I approached her and asked my question. She laughed, too, but a little nervously. "This flavor is very good, but very strong," she started. "In my village we like it very much." Her hesitation was beginning to worry me a little.
"Go on, " I urged her. Finally she came out with it-- mang da was a gigantic, 2 1/2 inch water beetle that people in northern Thailand roasted and ground as a seasoning. I realized that I had seen them in the freezer section of the Asian market, an icy block of frozen cockroaches; in fact I was quite sure that I had pulled them out of there, grimacing in disgust and wondering who would ever eat them.
Turns out, it was me. Later, when I asked the guy who owned the restaurant about it, though, he was offended that we would think that he would serve such a peasant sauce in his establishment. He was from Bangkok, he informed me, where they had much higher standards.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
IMBY
We live right next door to the county mulch pile. Well, I say pile, but another noun would probably be more correct; that mound of lawn clippings, leaves, etc. over there must be over 30 feet high, 20 feet wide, and 40 feet long. When we first moved into this place 11 years ago, I wasn't even aware that it was there. A narrow swath of woods and a chain link fence beyond separates our community from the county property. I'll never forget the winter day a few months later when I stepped out on my balcony. All the leaves were gone, and I did a classic cartoon double take, and although I can't confirm it, I think my eyes popped out of their sockets with that boi-yoi-yoinggg noise, too. How in the hell had that hulking heap of humus happened?
Over the years I've made my peace with it. Such an eco-friendly enterprise has to be located somewhere, doesn't it? That it's hidden from view most months, that I'm not allergic to leaf mold, and that neither do I mind the fragrance of rotting lawn clippings on a hot summer day helps. In fact I think it kind of smells like apples. Well, apples most of the time, except now, which is why I write about the mulch pile at all. In January and early February, it's everyone's discarded Christmas trees that are making their way through the chipper, and so the scent of pine permeates the cold air on these winter days, and I like that.
Over the years I've made my peace with it. Such an eco-friendly enterprise has to be located somewhere, doesn't it? That it's hidden from view most months, that I'm not allergic to leaf mold, and that neither do I mind the fragrance of rotting lawn clippings on a hot summer day helps. In fact I think it kind of smells like apples. Well, apples most of the time, except now, which is why I write about the mulch pile at all. In January and early February, it's everyone's discarded Christmas trees that are making their way through the chipper, and so the scent of pine permeates the cold air on these winter days, and I like that.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Yo Quiero...
I heard today on the radio that the founder of Taco Bell died. Glen Bell (so that's where the name came from... hm, I did not know that) was heralded as making Mexican food the mainstream staple of the American diet that it is today. I can't argue, in fact I had enchilladas for dinner last night and lunch today. (And they were delicious, Leah!)
I haven't thought about it in a long time, but as great a cook as my mom was, when we were growing up in New Jersey in the 60s and 70s, we didn't eat much ethnic food beyond spaghetti and chili. (And they were delicious, Mom!) Pizza was a treat, chips and salsa were unheard of, and it was a 25 minute drive to the nearest Chinese restaurant.
We did have some friends who moved to California in 1970, and as an airline family, we had the advantage of being able to visit them in Orange County a couple times a year. It was at their house that I tasted my first "taco". Soft corn tortillas were laid flat on a baking sheet with a slice of American cheese on each. While those warmed in the oven, plain ground beef was sauteed with nothing but salt and maybe black pepper. We folded the tortillas over the beef with some iceberg lettuce, diced tomato, and onion to complete the dish, and it was so good, that we packed tortillas in our suitcases and kept them in the freezer so that we could enjoy tacos at home.
Our friends thought we were sooo weird.
I haven't thought about it in a long time, but as great a cook as my mom was, when we were growing up in New Jersey in the 60s and 70s, we didn't eat much ethnic food beyond spaghetti and chili. (And they were delicious, Mom!) Pizza was a treat, chips and salsa were unheard of, and it was a 25 minute drive to the nearest Chinese restaurant.
We did have some friends who moved to California in 1970, and as an airline family, we had the advantage of being able to visit them in Orange County a couple times a year. It was at their house that I tasted my first "taco". Soft corn tortillas were laid flat on a baking sheet with a slice of American cheese on each. While those warmed in the oven, plain ground beef was sauteed with nothing but salt and maybe black pepper. We folded the tortillas over the beef with some iceberg lettuce, diced tomato, and onion to complete the dish, and it was so good, that we packed tortillas in our suitcases and kept them in the freezer so that we could enjoy tacos at home.
Our friends thought we were sooo weird.
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