hubris - via much pink c on on the red flowery t's
This tale is spun from the glorious days that were home economics/ food technology/ cooking lessons / whatever name it is the government gives to the double period where children can legally be placed in a room filled with sharp pointy objects, hot things and hormones and left barely supervised.

The being charged with looking after thirty of us in one year nine class was a Mrs. Lovejoy. I don't think sharing this matters as regards identity, she is bound to have left now anyway as what I am going to relate happened many moons ago. Plus it has to be one of the more inappropriate names for a teacher. Anyway, it's probably the fate of most teachers to be singled out for something for which they can easily be mocked, somewhere along the line. But this particular teacher made it very easy.

Tights.

Yep, that simple. Maybe not that funny or clever but effective nonetheless at keeping us entertained amongst ourselves. Maybe we were just that bored, or the heat from all the ovens had a strange effect on us. But every day, come hail or high water she would wear some pair of strange/ novelty / decorated tights. There were the relatively normal black fishnet ones with a flower pattern, but then there were the red chessboard pair, the stripes ... the tights and sandals in the summer... an old spin on a British holiday classic.

So where is the food in all this? Very well placed as it happens. In fact, it wasn't so much the food that was sabotaged, as the food that acted spontaneously on the behalf of some very grateful pupils to do the act itself.

Perhaps another truth about teachers is there is always one thing they will nag you on. Well, Mrs L was very hot(sorry...as you'll see) on the subject of heatproof gloves. Almost to the point of compulsion ... even to carrying things in a cold bowl that had been standing for ages!

Then came the day when we were each making various desserts. Everyone was doing their own thing as second period started and Mrs L was bustling around helping. She came up to the lucky soul who was making custard. This was not just any custard, this was Barbie's finest luminous pink, extra thick, instant custard. And it had been in the microwave for a good few minutes as Miss (plus tights) trotted up.

*Beeeeeep* I am at the table one over at this point, I hear a joking comment about the need for ovengloves made by a class mate, before I hear the immortal and soon to be fatal riposte sound from the lips of Mrs Lovejoy.

"I don't need oven gloves: I have asbestos fingers."

...

And so, flying in the face of all her own advice she removes the chalice of Barbie pink, extra thick custard from the innards of the microwave, bearing it triumphantly to the adjoining work surface. Until, seconds later, the rudely awakened Barbie pink, extra thick custard bestirs itself indigantly and communicates sharply via the old-fashioned but still sound means of the nervous system that yes, yes it is too hot and she might like to do something about it.

She does. Drops it. (Or more accurately, launches it decisively) Bowl flys to the floor and smashes. Love-ing the Joy of its new freedom, the Barbie pink, extra thick custard seeks to drive its lesson home - it heads instinctively for where it knows the damage will be personal, searing, lingering.

Seconds later there is pink custard all over her favourite tights, as well as the floor, work surface, table and, somehow, the microwave by now several feet away. And not only that, but her favourite pair: red and flowery this time. And yes, if anyone needed convincing that red and pink clash, there it was emblazoned in hot custard-searing glory.

There was an instant awestruck silence. She gazed round the room as thirty pairs of eyes shone back the reflection of her own hypocrisy, her pride reduced to the shattered shards of a standard school glass mixing bowl. Sabotage by custard, and literally by her own hands.

And there I shall leave her, standing in the dim mists of my memory ... later having to face the poor pupil whose custard it had been, and as a final insult, having to make a replacement batch. I can't remember what the custard was even supposed to be gracing. But things changed after that day, we never forgot... And yes she still wore tights, but more importantly, she always wore oven gloves.
(treaclebriggs, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 0:24, 1 reply)

Wow
You inspire my home economic flare...click
(powervator and NONE SHALL PASS, Fri 19 Sep 2008, 0:43, closed)