When I was originally hired, you may recall that I had to spend a little time learning various jobs that I may have to cover, including elementary school duty. I was honestly beginning to think it would never come up, until yesteray. Rosie called in sick...and I was asked to cover. This is a job I only helped with, following her around and doing as instructed, and only three or four times nine months ago.
Fortunately, it went pretty well. Muscle memory kicked in past my initial self-doubt, and I successfully drove the big truck in the rain, backed it up and unloaded it in the proper area, and set up for the elementary school children. Who, apparently, are really not fond of change.
Once kids started to pour in, they sized me up and surmised that I was Not Rosie. Which made me persona non grata in their book, and I was eyed with a wary look that suggested perhaps I might have poisoned Rosie. Or the food.
The pace of the serving was hard to gauge. For the first line, I set up plenty of trays in advance, remembering how quickly they began to disappear once the children arrived. However, the kindergarten set arrived a few minutes late and were surprisingly few in number...meaning most of them got trays of pizza and peas that had been sitting and getting cold. So I eased up on the advance preparation a little, only to be deluged by the fourth graders. Within two minutes of their arrival I was out of food and barely filling trays as they were snatched up one at a time.
For the most part it went smoothly, although I did get into a strange and unnecessary disagreement with a third grader. When she approached the counter, she didn't like what she saw.
"I don't like peas," she told me. "I want a tray with no peas on it."
And I want a dream date with Masi Oka, kid. It's school policy that we have to serve a nutritionally balanced lunch. "I'm sorry," I said. "All the trays come with peas on them."
"I don't like peas," she sniffed at me, as though I simply hadn't heard the first time. "Can you make me a tray with no peas on it?" Nope, sorry.
As she got increasingly agitated over the issue and kids began to maneuver around the traffic jam she created, I pushed a tray toward her decisively. "Look," I murmured. "No one's actually going to make you eat these peas. Ignore them."
And she gave me a Look, one I'd never seen on such a small face. It was an utterly withering look, an Oh-No-You-Didn't look, and after a gentle nudge to her friend I was getting it in stereo. Then she grudgingly left with pizza, milk, fruit cup...and peas.
So I arrived back tired and humbled. Tired, because I'd loaded and driven a food truck, packed and unpacked, served alone, and come back with enough time left to join in the dishwashing and clearing up at my own school. Humbled, because Rosie does this every day, except that she does so after coming in at 6:30am and cooking until lunchtime, and she's my grandmother's age.
This morning, when I told Rosie how the little ones had taken to me in her absence, her eyes absolutely twinkled. "Oh yeah," she said. "They're my babies."
And she can have them.
Fortunately, it went pretty well. Muscle memory kicked in past my initial self-doubt, and I successfully drove the big truck in the rain, backed it up and unloaded it in the proper area, and set up for the elementary school children. Who, apparently, are really not fond of change.
Once kids started to pour in, they sized me up and surmised that I was Not Rosie. Which made me persona non grata in their book, and I was eyed with a wary look that suggested perhaps I might have poisoned Rosie. Or the food.
The pace of the serving was hard to gauge. For the first line, I set up plenty of trays in advance, remembering how quickly they began to disappear once the children arrived. However, the kindergarten set arrived a few minutes late and were surprisingly few in number...meaning most of them got trays of pizza and peas that had been sitting and getting cold. So I eased up on the advance preparation a little, only to be deluged by the fourth graders. Within two minutes of their arrival I was out of food and barely filling trays as they were snatched up one at a time.
For the most part it went smoothly, although I did get into a strange and unnecessary disagreement with a third grader. When she approached the counter, she didn't like what she saw.
"I don't like peas," she told me. "I want a tray with no peas on it."
And I want a dream date with Masi Oka, kid. It's school policy that we have to serve a nutritionally balanced lunch. "I'm sorry," I said. "All the trays come with peas on them."
"I don't like peas," she sniffed at me, as though I simply hadn't heard the first time. "Can you make me a tray with no peas on it?" Nope, sorry.
As she got increasingly agitated over the issue and kids began to maneuver around the traffic jam she created, I pushed a tray toward her decisively. "Look," I murmured. "No one's actually going to make you eat these peas. Ignore them."
And she gave me a Look, one I'd never seen on such a small face. It was an utterly withering look, an Oh-No-You-Didn't look, and after a gentle nudge to her friend I was getting it in stereo. Then she grudgingly left with pizza, milk, fruit cup...and peas.
So I arrived back tired and humbled. Tired, because I'd loaded and driven a food truck, packed and unpacked, served alone, and come back with enough time left to join in the dishwashing and clearing up at my own school. Humbled, because Rosie does this every day, except that she does so after coming in at 6:30am and cooking until lunchtime, and she's my grandmother's age.
This morning, when I told Rosie how the little ones had taken to me in her absence, her eyes absolutely twinkled. "Oh yeah," she said. "They're my babies."
And she can have them.
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