For realsies

Now THIS is Corned Beef! March 17, 2013

1932 Libby’s Corned Beef Ad ~ Recipe File, Vintage Food Ads (Other).1932 Libby's Corned Beef Ad ~ Recipe File

As I prepared to embark on the corned beef and cabbage pilgrimage, I was pondering how very difficult it can be to make corned beef actually look appetizing.  Is it any wonder that the above version hides out inside a can until the cash has been exchanged?

Settle down; I am not serving canned corned beef—just because I like Jell-O doesn’t make me that scary and misguided.  However, I am considering departing from the unfortunately named “Boiled Dinner,” and opting to make some nice crispy roasted potatoes, rather than sending them to bathe with cabbage.  If St. Patrick is that offended by a little olive oil, I don’t know how he could have affiliated himself with the Vatican.

Just in case you haven’t bothered (lazy reader syndrome) or can’t (NEEDS readers syndrome) read the copy on the ad, I have to quote some of my favorite portions:

“Everybody’s happy when the mastermind that plans the menus remembers Libby’s Corned Beef!

The family rejoices! Families have a way of being pleasingly outspoken in their approval of this mild corned beef—mild, yet rich-flavored.

She rejoices—the mastermind, that is.  Nothing to do but chill the can in the ice-box, then slice the firm, tender meat.”

Moo0-hooo-ha-haa! The menu mastermind strikes again! Cabbage, schmabbage! We’re having peach halves with maraschino cherries as our side dish! Excuse me while I go and slice that firm, tender meat.


I Make My Hair! October 17, 2012

Filed under: humor,teaching — peachyteachy @ 8:14 pm
Tags: , , ,

Bathroom going is one of the pain-in-the-ass aspects of teaching.  There is the well-known fact that teachers must be able to hold it for Herculean periods of time.  But that’s the least of my worries.  Students and the bathroom—that’s hell on wheels.  Do you take the whole class, standing in the hall for a solid fifteen while the entire class cycles through the ordeal, while the rest of them wait calmly and angelically in a perfect line outside the bathroom? Maybe, in the Vatican. In my school, there will likely be blood spilled.  Or at least shins kicked.

As a result, I have bathroom passes and let kids go with a hand signal and the admonition that they have two minutes.  I have a naughty little English Language Learner who blithely pretends that he is not privy to our concepts of time, and regularly disappears for twenty minutes at a time, while scores more wait at their desks, waving their bathroom signals aloft while clutching at their crotches.  It makes for some super-effective teaching, I assure you.  I ask a question, call on a kid, only to realize that he is not volunteering an answer, but is waving a bathroom signal.  In fact, you realize, no one knows anything, and they each have the bladder control of a three-year-old.  Tony Robbins would crumple in the face of this crowd.

Today, Naughty Boy goes AWOL as usual.  Upon his return, I sternly remind him that he was gone for far too long.  He smiles, rubs his head, and says, “I make my hair.” His hair is exactly one millimeter long, and does not require any water application to “make.”

Jaws clenched, I tell him that “You don’t make your hair! That is not okay; you go for two minutes! There’s no making hair!”

Heartwarming and whimsical, you think to yourself.  Whatever. I continue with whatever it was that I was teaching; by now, any momentum is pretty much grinding to a screeching halt and I have to tap dance to get them to focus back on my compelling show.

Naughty Boy raises his hand.  “Can I go to the nurse to get a shirt? Mine is wet.”

Dying a little bit inside, I calmly respond that NO, he can’t go to the nurse to get a shirt! He MADE HIS HAIR and now he has to deal with the consequences! He repeated his request at least three more times, while distracting everyone further by squeezing, wringing and and waving the front of his shirt in the air.

Remind me to pick up a blow dryer to add to my classroom supplies.  Don’t even ask about the soul-crushing properties of pencils.  That saga continues.


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