Let’s go back to junior high, that warren of shaming and humiliation one endures before becoming an amoeba in high school.
Cooking class was particularly odious. However, a savior appeared. A boy elected to invade the virginal sanctity of the kitchen and no one wanted to be his partner – except me.
I felt sorry for him. I also felt that since he actually wanted to cook, let him do it! We spent the whole semester making white sauce. (Gag!)
In April, I contracted chicken pox. Upon my return, I sported three scabs on my forehead. After suffering the indignity of classmates saying “Ewww!” as I passed by, it was cooking time.
My partner recoiled in horror, afraid that a scab would fall into his precious white sauce. Perversely, I exclaimed, “Look! There’s already one in there!”
He went bonkers, scrabbling frantically about the pan with his wooden spoon and making a scene. Teacher soon squelched the hilarity.
Eventually, our final project was burbling on the stove and emitting sulfurous odors – Eggs a la King – featuring perfect white sauce. (Triple gag!)
