Good days begin with a meal safely tucked away in the crockpot, that goes for winter days anyway. (Does anyone ever wonder why we don’t capitalize seasons? Funny and perhaps troubling, or is that just me?) On summer days a good day begins with the promise of a meal on the grill, plumbed with fresh garden foodstuffs, but on any other day the crockpot is a good beginning.
Weariness followed me around a bit today; a friend mentioned “teacher immunity” today- this is a condition wherein your incessantly tested and tired antibodies only allow you to get a little sick. You wander around thinking, “oh no, it is happening; any day now the plague will descend, and I will really feel bad.” But, instead, you just feel the looming malaise of “getting sick.” This is like getting a ticket to a great concert and then having to watch it on a teleprompter in another room. You don’t get any of the fringe benefits of being sick (pity, sick days, entitled engorgement on treats), and yet you feel rotten. Cue: Holding of head at the temples and prominent clearing of throat in order to justify feeling not quite on the tip top of your game. Teacher immunity is (politely) for the birds.
There were very nice moments too: I had a light up teacher moment today. In a discussion, we just began to flow. Students were asking good questions, pondering good ideas. One was thrown out that threw us all for a spell; the gravity of thought descended on the group- a silence that ached to be born, and in the end we all nodded in agreement at the answers we possessed. Leave it to a class of 20 seniors and a twenty-something me to solve the mysteries of the human condition.
And then there was eating the cookies. My husband and I shared the bounty: coconut chocolate chip and peanut butter. We liked the peanut butter better; the coco chip was too sandy, if you know what I mean, but the best part was the ritual. Me a bite then him a bite. Silence and satisfaction in the studied way we marched around those treats. Leaving an acceptable amount for the other, but maneuvering just so that the last bite would be peanut butter. I know this man well and tease him when he lays the last bite close to his side. He snatches at a crumb like it is a gold doubloon, and I relish of him just as much as the zest of these little treats. Our back and forthing just like hands in the old time game, I will place mine on top, yours on top, and over again until we tire of it, but I won’t tire for a good long while. The sweetness of the communion lasts on my tongue longer than that of the cookie.