One of which is cooking.
When I cook with the students, when I supervise the slow, ragged chopping of onions for crock pot chili, or the sloppy skewering of mini wieners to be laid out in raw dough caskets, my soul strains against its bony cage and yearns to be free.
So I was not pleased when my coworkers ordered me to supervise a group of kids making applesauce.
They were going to some staff-only "Taste the Fall Harvest" potluck, and they'd forgotten to bring a dish.
I told them I wanted nothing to do with any of it, but my fellow paraprofessionals have recently decided they are in charge of me, and can make me do whatever they want.
This has opened the door to all kinds of passive-aggressive wackiness.
Two hours later, they came back to check on us and were horrified when I presented them with a large bowl of hot lumpy cider.
"How could this have happened?" they wailed.
Here is the recipe:
"I mean, it's applesauce, but it's really loose applesauce. It just falls right through the strainer," one of them observed, barely concealing the rising panic in her voice.
I thought of the German durchfall, literally "to fall through", but also their word for diarrhea.
"We can't bring this to Taste the Fall Harvest. It's embarrassing. It's got like chunks or something in it."
They served it to the students instead. Everyone sat around drinking applesauce from cups.
"Mmm....nice and warm," someone commented.
People asked for seconds.
I glanced down at my mugful of the stuff, cooling and untouched, and smiled.
There was no way in hell I was going to drink it.