Churl Talk

I was searching for the hours to the community center, which is attached to my former school, when a link to an online discussion forum caught my eye. An anonymous author had posted a question about the quality of the school, particularly compared to another middle school in the northern, more affluent section of the county. The other school was Heidi's new school, and I clicked to the discussion with interest. 

The conversation took place over several hours on an October evening two years ago, when we were both still teaching there. At first, I was a little appalled that people were actually having such a public, if anonymous, discussion about me, my colleagues, and our students without our knowledge. There was also quite a bit of mis- and perhaps some disinformation. There were a couple of compliments, as well, but the two comments that broke my heart were these:

Yes, there are more poor kids than several of the other neighborhood middle schools but good discipline and stable teaching force manage the poor kids well enough for us.

And

I’m sure there is a bright cadre of kids [at my school] but there are way more kids on balance who are going to have needs just due to demographics. [the other school] is going to have — again on balance — a much larger group of very bright, very motivated kids. It’s my belief that kids are some of the strongest influences on each other and while you could find your way into that group at [my school] for sure you are much more likely to have that opportunity at [the other school] plus the overall dynamic is going to be less needs driven.

The second remark drew a sharp response:

My students have a large enough peer group of "very bright, very motivated" kids to rub shoulders with at school. Believe it or not, some of these kids aren't from well-off families. Heaven help us, they're from hardscrabble recent immigrant families where academic success is paramount. Their parents may have been professionals in Afghanistan, Syria, Venezuela or Mongolia, but some of them are janitors or Lyft drivers in VA for now. Needs-driven peers who put nose to the grindstone and don't compete to have the snazziest stuff seem like good influences on my spoiled children.

To which somebody replied:

Agree 100%. Uptight parents who boost for [the other school] are a drag. [My school] remains a solid choice for the mildly adventurous.

I was glad the thread ended so long ago, because after that? I was speechless. 

Last Hurrah

I spent a couple of hours this afternoon cleaning out the garden for the winter, but I made a final harvest first. In addition to a ton of blackeyed peas, there were still a lot of cherry tomatoes and peppers, so I cut a couple of healthy sprigs from the rosemary shrub and tucked them in the bag with the veggies. 

Back at home, I crushed some of the garlic I grew earlier in the season and sauteed it in a big glug of olive oil. Then I shaved a Marconi pepper into the pan and added some rosemary. A little while later, all those tiny tomatoes were popping and blistering in the oil, too. Once they started bursting, I added some sea salt and a jar of crushed tomatoes I had canned back in August. 

As the sauce simmered, I roasted a spaghetti squash, also from the garden. And in a few moments, with the addition of some fresh basil harvested from the deck? Dinner will be served!

Balancing Equations

The eighth graders were excited to see me when I entered the science lab. 

My sixth-grade science job was over, but I'd been asked to provide backup to another sub in a class that was known to be high-energy. Just like the sixth graders, these older kids were working on basic chemistry, but they were applying what they had learned about atoms and molecules in past years to balance chemical equations. 

I was delighted to find that I remembered it all from high school, and I was able to circulate through the room, answer questions, and help the students as they practiced.

"You're really good at this!" one of my former students told me. 

"You're really good at it, too," I returned the compliment, because he was.

"Maybe even better than English," he teased.

"Never!" I laughed and went to help somebody else.

Multilingual

My sub job today started in a small 6th-grade English class of seven students. They were working on word parts and taking a quiz, and I was one of four educators in the room. I didn't mind at all; it was fun to work one-on-one with some of the kids. Near the end of the block, I sat across from a boy practicing identifying action and state of being verbs. "Can you do it?" I asked him whenever he was stumped. "If yes, it's an action verb."

He did get a little stuck on the verb seem, though. 

"Can you do it?" I asked, and when he nodded, I raised my eyebrows and said, "Show me."

He sat very still for a moment and then tried several facial expressions, finally settling on a smooth, neutral look. "I seem calm," he told me.

"Calm is a feeling," I replied. "It's something you can be, that's why seem is a state of being verb."

He nodded again. "Do you speak other languages?" he asked.

It was a fair question. "Not really," I admitted. "I know some vocabulary in Spanish, and I took French in high school."

"I speak Spanish," he told me, "but I want to learn French."

"It's a fun language to learn," I agreed.

"I really want to know the word vagatay." He pronounced it slowly.

"I don't know that one," I said. "How do you think it's spelled?"

"V-G-T," he paused, searching for phonemes. "Another G?" he suggested, and then sighed. "It's a kind of food," he explained.

I thought for a moment. "Is it bread?" I asked him. "Do you mean baguette?"

"Vagette?" he repeated.

"No, it's a B. Baaaa-guette," I exaggerated. "But I guess B is pronounced like a V in Spanish, right?"

"Yes!" he said. "That's probably why I was confused."

"You're learning in three languages!" I replied. "That's pretty good!"

The Ice

There was a rather taciturn young man at the register when I carried my handbasket of produce over. He greeted me, but did not make eye contact or conversation. Sometimes I wonder if it's easy for young people to dismiss me or hard for them to engage with me because I'm a white woman of a certain age, and I felt a bit awkward standing silently as he scanned and expertly packed my groceries. I'm an introvert myself, but while he worked, I searched for a way to connect with him.

"Perfect!" I said as he slid the last item into the bag. "What a great packing job!"

"Thank you," he said with the trace of a smile.

"That's an art!" I continued.

"It really is," he agreed, his face opening up. 

"And you're an artist," I laughed appreciatively.

"You gotta do something to make work fun," he nodded as I tapped my card. 

"Enjoy the rest of your day," he smiled as he handed me the bag, and I could tell he meant it.

Payoff

When Heidi switched jobs this school year, we were hopeful that since the position was more direct support for students and less instructional prep, she would have more free time after school hours and on weekends. 

At the beginning of the year, this was not true, as setting up the program and collaborating with many other staff members to implement academic support for her students was very time-consuming. She ended up working just as many extra hours as before. Even so, we hoped it would be an investment, and it seems it might have been. 

"I'm kind of at loose ends," Heidi said on Friday afternoon when she arrived home an hour after the bell. "I don't really have any work this weekend." It was an off week for her soccer team, too, so it felt like she had lots of extra time. We spent it sleeping in, taking Lucy on long walks, hosting a dinner party, doing a jigsaw puzzle, watching a movie, going bowling, hitting golf balls at Top Golf, and shopping. It was almost like a vacation. 

"I could get used to this!" Heidi said this afternoon. 

I could, too.

Porchetta

Emily asked for a fall dinner featuring pork for her birthday, and I got it into my head that I would make porchetta. Traditionally, this rolled, slow-roasted herby pork dish was made from the belly and loin of a whole pig. Early in the 20th century, Italian immigrants in Philadelphia adapted it to use more available butcher cuts, and an American classic was born.

I found lots of different recipes and techniques to prepare porchetta, but I was drawn to one that combined pounded pork belly and pork tenderloin. Tenderloin is readily available in any grocery store, but I had seen slabs of pork belly at the big box warehouse just a couple of days before. When I headed over there to get some, though, I realized the packages were 8-10 pounds each. 

Believe me, I thought about it long and hard before leaving the place empty-handed, but I just could not justify the extra pounds of pork belly. "We probably could have given the extra away," Heidi suggested generously when I told her of my plight. Could we have, though?

As this was Friday morning and the roast needed to be rolled a day in advance, suddenly, I was on the clock. The next place I shopped was a supermarket in a chain known for its natural and organic inventory. They did have pork belly, but it was already portioned, and the butcher apologetically informed me that there were no larger pieces in back. As the prospect of finding what I wanted dimmed, I bought a couple of Breton chops, thinking they might come in handy should I have to pivot.

The next couple of places did not stock pork belly at all, so I threw some boneless shoulder chops and thick-cut bacon into my cart alongside the pork tenderloin. And, since I wanted to serve it with an intense, porky jus, I also tossed a rack of ribs (on sale) and six chicken legs.

And that's what I had to work with when I got home later that afternoon. I lined a baking sheet with plastic wrap and nestled slices of the relatively lean bacon side by side. Then I pounded the well-marbled shoulder chops into uniform oblongs and laid them over the bacon. I sprinkled some toasted fennel seed, rosemary, and red pepper powder from my garden over the meat. Then I butterflied the tenderloin and rubbed it with the same spice mix before placing it atop the other pork. I rolled the whole thing tightly and placed it in the fridge to rest for 24 hours.

The porky jus simmered a couple of hours the next afternoon while the porchetta roasted in a low oven. When it reached 140 degrees, I took it out and let it rest, turning the oven to 475 for its final blast to crisp up the bacon.

It was only when everyone arrived that I considered what a gamble I had taken. I had no idea how the main dish was going to turn out until it was time to serve it. Even so, my confidence, or over-confidence, in the kitchen set my mind at ease. And when I sliced into it? It looked great, a perfect spiral of tender pork and herbs. 

It also passed my one true cooking test. As we enjoyed the roast, its sauce, some spelt, and a fall vegetable platter, I posed a question to my guests. "Would you ask for this again?" I inquired, and they allowed as they would.