Every Other Generation
My son's teacher stared at me from across her desk. "Jack is very bright, you know," she said. "He is a pleasure to teach."
"That's good," I said.
"But," she started, sighed, then began again. "There have been a few problems lately."
"Fighting?" I asked.
"No, no," she said, waving her hand. "It's his lunch. His bag lunch."
"Lunch?" I asked.
"It frightens the other children," she said. "And, frankly, some of the teachers as well."
"I don't understand," I said. "We've paid for school lunch."
"Oh dear," said the teacher. "This could be a problem, then."
"What is it?" I asked, a slow chill starting its creep from the base of my neck. "What is he eating?"
The teacher pulled out a paper bag from her desk. It looked like it held something wet.
"He didn't finish this one," she said, handing me the bag. "Take a look."
Opening the bag, the sickly sweet odor inside instantly took me back to my childhood on the hog farm, and I winced.
"Right," I said, closing the bag. "It's a...uh...cultural dish. My father used to eat these."
"Oh," she said.
"I'll talk to him about being more discreet," I said.
And about covering his tracks, I thought.
My son's teacher stared at me from across her desk. "Jack is very bright, you know," she said. "He is a pleasure to teach."
"That's good," I said.
"But," she started, sighed, then began again. "There have been a few problems lately."
"Fighting?" I asked.
"No, no," she said, waving her hand. "It's his lunch. His bag lunch."
"Lunch?" I asked.
"It frightens the other children," she said. "And, frankly, some of the teachers as well."
"I don't understand," I said. "We've paid for school lunch."
"Oh dear," said the teacher. "This could be a problem, then."
"What is it?" I asked, a slow chill starting its creep from the base of my neck. "What is he eating?"
The teacher pulled out a paper bag from her desk. It looked like it held something wet.
"He didn't finish this one," she said, handing me the bag. "Take a look."
Opening the bag, the sickly sweet odor inside instantly took me back to my childhood on the hog farm, and I winced.
"Right," I said, closing the bag. "It's a...uh...cultural dish. My father used to eat these."
"Oh," she said.
"I'll talk to him about being more discreet," I said.
And about covering his tracks, I thought.
Hehe, wow. I don't really have any more to say. :o) Be more discreet...... lol.
Posted by: Mads | April 09, 2007 at 06:18 PM
I don't want to ask what was inside the bag, but... at the same time, I kind of want to know.
Posted by: Gretchen | April 09, 2007 at 06:55 PM
wow... sounds faintly like Rocky Road Oysters..... yummy. ugh, sorry to be so gross...... I think I'll leave it at htat...
Posted by: Faith | April 09, 2007 at 07:24 PM
I kind of want to now as well.
Posted by: Taiger | April 10, 2007 at 01:50 PM
Some times Dean all I can think of to say is "Uh..."
Posted by: Enna Isilee | April 10, 2007 at 03:51 PM
Seriously, how on earth do you manage to think up these strange instances, Dean? Do you speak from past experiences? :)
Posted by: Sylvia | April 12, 2007 at 01:53 AM