Teachers Toast

One class I wasn't a big fan of was Home Ec. I had already learned most of what I needed to know from my mother and my sisters. Mr. Long, our teacher and chef, is dressed in white, from his paper chef's hat down to his shoes. He has two prominent features: a  Fu Manchu moustache and a wandering eye. For that reason (not knowing which one to look into), I never engaged in conversation. 

Today's lesson is breakfast preparation. Some kids are across the hall, setting up the teacher lounge for breakfast. Every place setting is decorated meticulously. There is a huge coffee urn gurgling in the corner. Teachers are hovering, waiting for their morning elixir.

 

I am in the kitchen learning how to paint lightly browned Texas toast with butter. Every slice has a round circle of yellow that never seems to reach the edges, stacked on a plate. I never understood why they gave us a paintbrush instead of a knife. I found this unacceptable. I have never spread my favourite spreadables thin. Edge-to-edge peanut butter and jelly. A paintbrush.  Why? I don't think anyone ever ordered butter and bristle toast, but I imagine it happened by mistake more than a few times. 

The next thing I see is scrambled eggs in a bag. My family is particular about eggs. The bagged egg thing wouldn't fly. It would fly if someone tried to serve the slop. Speaking of scrambled edicate, I don't like egg snot, so that little white umbilical cord gets forked and thrown in the trash. My younger brother hates slime or overdone. Half buttered toast and no yolk is a deal breaker. You can't dunk an egg ball. Back to school.

In front of me, I see a lard-infused grill. Scrambled eggs are poured out of a bag. Next to the eggs, hashbrowns sizzled with onions. When our meal prep was over, we carried the poor example of breakfast to the teachers' lounge. Breakfast was served. Luckily, they had coffee to wash it down.