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Secrets of the Pharoahs
Dec. 21st, 2012 01:12 pmOn the way to school today, my grandson says to me, "Hey Poppa, I think this is the day we're s'posed to make our gingerbread houses."
As I'm driving, I'm thinking, "Oh, crap, I think he's right."
But what I say to him is, "Oh, great, that's always fun."
He's probably right because today is the last day of school before the Christmas break. Which makes this their last chance for the gathering and building and bringing home for the holidays of these gooey, dripping, bacteria-laden messes of would-be confectionary art.
After all, they've done it every year since the first grade, so why would they NOT jump at this chance to unequivocally demonstrate the maturation of artistic sensibilities and technical expertise wrought by three years of a public school education?
And I know I'm right about this particular piece of our educational history because, well, the resulting artifacts are among those precious things that the little darlings pour their hearts and souls into and which you can't possibly throw out and so there's three of them sitting on our own front porch at this very moment. Perfectly intact.
Now let's think about that. Thus far, the first of these nasty little edifices of 90% simple sugars has survived three yearly cycles of heating, cooling, airborne bacteria, and potential insect infestation and is still the artificially-colored, lopsided mess that it was the first day it was brought home.
Being the consumate healthcare professional that she is, my wife has, in the past, expressed some concerns about this. I think it's a reflection of both her training and personality that she so doggedly pursues any possible logic in such things even if they seem, at first glance, completely unfathomable. (She has, for example, been trying for years to understand our household spending habits. And she hasn't cracked that one yet, either, but she's nothing if not tenacious.)
So maintaining a professional calm, while perhaps struggling a bit to put it in terms that her layman spouse may possibly understand, she says, "You know, all of the stuff they put in those things is stuff that we're supposed to be able to eat. But nothing ever happens to it. Even the insects don't touch it."
Hearing the puzzlement, perhaps even an uncharacteristic hint of fear in her voice, I know from long experience that it's now time for me to move seamlessly from my role as housekeeper, child care provider, and technical support person to that of forensic anthropologist, muse, and omniscient seer of the wide universe.
So I say to her, with the supreme confidence of one whose knowledge is firmly grounded in countless hours spent watching SpongeBob and ICarly, "I'm pretty sure it's something they discovered just before they flooded The Valley of Kings for the Aswan Dam Project. It's been like, you know, handed down from the Pharoahs."
To which she says nothing, prefering to imagine that her question went unanswered instead of once more confronting the reality that she's spent almost forty years of her life, beginning when she was still a vibrant and hopeful young woman, married to this, this...
And with that, she finally does give up and exits the room.
LPK
LiveJournal
12.21.12
As I'm driving, I'm thinking, "Oh, crap, I think he's right."
But what I say to him is, "Oh, great, that's always fun."
He's probably right because today is the last day of school before the Christmas break. Which makes this their last chance for the gathering and building and bringing home for the holidays of these gooey, dripping, bacteria-laden messes of would-be confectionary art.
After all, they've done it every year since the first grade, so why would they NOT jump at this chance to unequivocally demonstrate the maturation of artistic sensibilities and technical expertise wrought by three years of a public school education?
And I know I'm right about this particular piece of our educational history because, well, the resulting artifacts are among those precious things that the little darlings pour their hearts and souls into and which you can't possibly throw out and so there's three of them sitting on our own front porch at this very moment. Perfectly intact.
Now let's think about that. Thus far, the first of these nasty little edifices of 90% simple sugars has survived three yearly cycles of heating, cooling, airborne bacteria, and potential insect infestation and is still the artificially-colored, lopsided mess that it was the first day it was brought home.
Being the consumate healthcare professional that she is, my wife has, in the past, expressed some concerns about this. I think it's a reflection of both her training and personality that she so doggedly pursues any possible logic in such things even if they seem, at first glance, completely unfathomable. (She has, for example, been trying for years to understand our household spending habits. And she hasn't cracked that one yet, either, but she's nothing if not tenacious.)
So maintaining a professional calm, while perhaps struggling a bit to put it in terms that her layman spouse may possibly understand, she says, "You know, all of the stuff they put in those things is stuff that we're supposed to be able to eat. But nothing ever happens to it. Even the insects don't touch it."
Hearing the puzzlement, perhaps even an uncharacteristic hint of fear in her voice, I know from long experience that it's now time for me to move seamlessly from my role as housekeeper, child care provider, and technical support person to that of forensic anthropologist, muse, and omniscient seer of the wide universe.
So I say to her, with the supreme confidence of one whose knowledge is firmly grounded in countless hours spent watching SpongeBob and ICarly, "I'm pretty sure it's something they discovered just before they flooded The Valley of Kings for the Aswan Dam Project. It's been like, you know, handed down from the Pharoahs."
To which she says nothing, prefering to imagine that her question went unanswered instead of once more confronting the reality that she's spent almost forty years of her life, beginning when she was still a vibrant and hopeful young woman, married to this, this...
And with that, she finally does give up and exits the room.
LPK
LiveJournal
12.21.12
