Two Dollars an Hour: On Cleaning and Leaving 362 Wymount Terrace

 What is it about a one hundred dollar cleaning deposit that inspires two full grown women, mother and daughter, to spend hours scrapping, scrubbing and scouring? In the past few months I have willingly contributed hundreds of dollars—a suit, flowers, airfare, hotels—for my son Nathan’s wedding. And now for a mere hundred, we feel compelled to spend hour upon hour. For three days we have cleaned, leaving no dust mite nor grease splatter undisturbed. Conservatively I estimate we two have been working at the handsome rate of two dollars an hour. Last January I turned down a job that paid far more because I did not consider it worth my time. Even in my darkest moments of maternal guilt and self-flagellation, I consider myself worth far more than two dollars an hour.

I suppose it is the sense of challenge that drives us. Can we satisfy the demands of some anonymous inspector? I imagine him, donning white gloves, haughtily scanning the apartment and perfunctorily swiping his index finger across the top of a doorframe in order to detect the thoroughness of our dusting. Can we appease him? Can we triumphantly claim the full cleaning deposit? We are determined not to fail where others before us have: there will be no oven cleaner residue on the oven, no scratch marks on the stove, no dust in the window tracks.

Even the fixtures and appliances seem to challenge us. I contend with these less-than-attractive, wood-grain laminate and steel cabinets. First, I attack with hot water and soap, then oil soap, and finally spray cleaner. Yet a few stubborn patches of residue remain. These cabinets bear the nicks and scratches and gouges of nearly three generations of married Wymount Terrace students. I am certain they harbor more than my daughter’s four years worth of grime. No one would fault my valiant, sufficient efforts. And yet I feel compelled to triumph over these cabinets. Finally, I listen to my daughter. I gently scrap the edge of an expired credit card—my daughter’s favorite cleaning tool—across the remaining resistant spots. Victory is mine. I run my hands up and down each cabinet. All are smooth. Satiny. Completely clean.

As I seek to justify our hours spent cleaning, I discover that my pride lurks a bit deeper than this sense of challenge. I am a mother. A good mother, I believe. I know how to keep house, although more often than not I choose not to. I have taught my daughter how to keep house, although more often than not she does not have the time. I am convinced together we can clean her apartment, far, far better than anyone else. The gleaming oven racks prove this—only one as cleaning wise as I would know to soak them overnight in garbage bag with a cup of ammonia.

I do not intend to devote much time to the shower and tub. I intend to just bubble and foam away the soap scum and be done with it. But my cleaning haughtiness soon gets the better of me, and I am quickly donning rubber gloves, pouring a small cup of bleach and grabbing an old toothbrush—one of my favorite cleaning tools. Even then, as I determinedly brush the grout, I think I will only scrub a few scummy spots around the tub spout, the showerhead and soap dish tray. But then I stand back and admire my work. The line of demarcation between the bleached and unbleached grout troubles me.  Just a little more, I rationalize, a few more tiles to the left, a few more tiles to the right. And before I know it I have brushed the every inch of grout. By bits and pieces, the unclean grout has disappeared just like a cake with uneven edges on a Heritage Halls kitchen table, demanding straight edges, beckoning all who see it to slice small piece after piece until it no longer exists.

I am proud. This tile looks far cleaner than the bathrooms of any of the hotels I have patronized in the past month. I am a bit too proud, too haughty. I revel in my gleaming success.  I find myself sneaking into the bathroom every hour or two just to take in the shower’s clean, blinding whiteness.

In my more altruistic moments, or perhaps when the fumes from the cleaning chemicals have clouded my judgment, I conclude that it is also a sense of obligation that spurs my cleaning efforts. I am descended from hardy pioneer stock, they who planted crops at way stations in Iowa or marked trails across Nebraska plains or Utah canyons, hoping to make an arduous journey a little easier for those who followed. I, too, hope to pay it forward. I can imagine the next occupant of 362 Wymount—an intent yet prudent bride, one who assured her new husband she would willingly sacrifice amenities like dishwashers and microwaves for a sensible apartment at a practical price. I imagine her excitedly flinging open the apartment door, catching her first real glimpse of her honeymoon cottage. I can also imagine her illusions slowly dissipating as she sees, for the first time, without the benefit of romantic blinders, the cinder block walls and industrial strength carpet.  I hope impeccably clean cupboards and counters provide some solace. 

Ultimately, however, I wonder if we are not driven in our cleaning pursuits by a sense of that grand American fear: What will the neighbors think? I am reminded of all the neighbors who are oh-so-willing to render judgment to their local small town paparazzi whenever any newsworthy event draws the attention of the community. The little old lady who lives next door to the corrupt local official or bank robber is either routinely astonished—you would have never known it, for he was the nicest gentleman, who always had a kind word for me—or not surprised in the least—he was a loner, always keeping to himself, coming and going only at night, yet always managing to kick my dog.

And it is that fear that most compels me. What will the new inhabitants say to the neighbors about our cleaning habits? I imagine their airing our dirty laundry at the next neighborhood barbecue in the quad: I found a moldy sock on the top shelf of the closet—can you believe it? There was a mound of half-eaten candy bars in a dark recess of the pantry—what slobs! And when we turned on the kitchen faucet, the disposal regurgitated a slew of soggy strawberries and sour milk—what were they thinking?

Regardless of our motivations, in our calculus of time and money, I naively assume we have determined my daughter’s cleaning deposit is worth more than our time. How else am I to categorize three days of cleaning in trade for a hundred dollars? Yet in a delightful twist of irony, my daughter tells me that for her it is this time spent cleaning that really matters most. She has very carefully measured out our hours and days with lists and tasks and talk. Talk of vinegar and calcium deposits, ammonia and grime, personal tales and family lore. And mother to daughter, I pass on cleaning secrets and homey wisdom garnered during a lifetime. We have talked. And we have listened. Nothing can replace our hours spent together. And yet a thought still nags—could we not get this same satisfaction from three days at a spa?

Our time is now limited. Today we must finish. The refrigerator and oven sparkle. The windows gleam. We will swipe the bathroom sink and kitchen countertops one last time. Yes, I readily admit there is a certain sense of satisfaction. Yet it would have been much simpler to have quickly packed her bags (and, of course, an entire U-haul truck) and turned in her keys without nary a thought.

Two dollars an hour. Was it worth it?

I do not know. I would ask Chrissy, but she is in her bedroom, crying. Maybe, in a few days, her check will make her smile.

Supper on a Slice

For Nathan and Justine on the occasion of their wedding, June 28, 2011

Scott and I were much like you, Nathan and Justine, when we married—our missions had brought us together, we faced many years of school and presumed poverty, we lived our first few months of married life in a tiny basement apartment (although your bathroom is far more suitable—ours had falling tile in the shower), and we were both working—Scott even taught at Missionary Training Center just like Nathan.  Most importantly, like you, we were also madly in love.

Seeking to be the ever-provident wife, I had insisted upon a food storage bridal shower a few weeks before our marriage. Thankfully, most of my guests did not all bring wheat. At my host’s request, each guest also brought a favorite recipe. So I began married life with a sheaf of hand written recipes on index cards neatly filed in a cute little tole painted recipe box and a narrow galley kitchen with the most hideous red carpet.

Those first few months of marriage we were very, very busy. And those first few months I also discovered that my husband was also very, very cheap—he had calculated the actual cost per gallon of a carton of milk that could be purchased at the Cougareat and refused on principle to buy any milk there, despite the fact that he loved milk. He was so penurious, I felt guilty even so much as purchasing a candy bar. Needless to say, we brown bagged our lunches and most evenings we cooked dinner at home. It was the rare occasion that we splurged at the Cougareat getting a salad at the salad bar (the true art to maximizing the yield was edging one’s salad bowl with cucumbers) or a combo 2—enchiladas, rice, beans and salad. So when I looked at the recipe from Gwen McMullin, one of my mother’s best friends, I knew I had a winner. Supper on a Slice—it was easy, quick, cheap.

Supper on a Slice is sort of like a layer of meatloaf spread across a loaf of French bread sliced lengthwise. The bread crisps in the oven as the meat conglomerate bakes. Scott and I were meatloaf kind of people and we heartily devoured Supper on a Slice the first time I made it. And the leftovers wrapped up nicely for lunch the next day. So easy, so quick, so cheap. Perfect for the modern Mormon bride with aspirations of doing it all. Supper on a Slice became a staple of the newlywed Stornetta household.

There will come a time in your honeymoon cottage when you suddenly realize you are no longer playing house. You will still be blissfully happy, most of the time, but the reality of the demands of daily life plays havoc with eternal aspirations. Dirty socks and dirty dishes, burnt meals, tight budgets and toilet seats that seem permanently locked in the up position suddenly loom a little larger than ever before.

More than a few weeks into our marriage and the new semester, that reality hit me. I was severely sleep deprived because I had great difficulty navigating the lumps in our second-hand mattress. The tiles kept falling each day as I showered. And I was struggling a bit in school—Middle English just did not seem to come to me naturally. So I was a little weary as I sat down one Saturday to prepare a grocery list for the coming week. As was my habit, I asked Scott what he wanted to eat during the coming week. My request was and still is more of a courtesy. In twenty-eight years of marriage he has rarely replied. Thinking about what to eat is not part of his realm of thought. This Saturday, however, was atypical.

“May I speak frankly?” he answered hesitantly, returning my question with one of his own.

Oh, no, I thought. There is something serious on his mind. I guess the groceries can wait.

“Yes,” I replied with trepidation, not knowing what to expect.

“It’s just that . . .”

“Yes . . . ” I encouraged him on, wary, worried about what he found so difficult to share. What had I done?

“It’s just that . . .”

My weary mind snapped into gear as I reviewed my actions of the past few weeks. What grievous wrong had I committed?

“It’s just that . . .  "

"Yes," I slowly replied, my tone belying my panic. Would our marriage survive, I wondered. I tried to remain outwardly calm amidst the maelstrom of my feelings.

“It’s just that if I have to eat Supper on a Slice one more time, I think I will die,” he blurted out.

“That’s it?”

“Yes,” he replied, a weight lifted from his shoulders. We both gave a collective sigh of relief.

I wasn’t sure if I could laugh. I did not want to offend my husband. As I looked at him, I thought of my father. At the outbreak of World War II, he was serving a mission in Washington and Oregon. For many, many months, he and his companion ate meals of only rice and beans in order to economize. After his mission, my father refused to eat either again. (His losing fifteen pounds on a trip to China is testament to that.) As a child, I did not know my father liked neither rice nor beans. My mother just did not serve either. Of course, she also did not serve spaghetti, tacos or pizza, staples of my generation. My dad was a meat and potatoes kind of guy.

When I found out about my father’s imposed rice ban, probably just after my mission spent eating rice in Japan, I asked my mother how she was able to get my father to eat her Chinese noodle and hamburger casserole. It was a family favorite and a staple widely circulated in ward Relief Society cookbooks during the sixties. It had rice in it and for that matter, soy sauce, a rather exotic ingredient for middle America at the time.

“Well, I just made it. I assumed because it was in a casserole, your father would not mind as much. And he never really said anything, so I just kept making it and you kids seemed to like it so much. One day, however, I found out how much he really hated it. He had been suffering in silence for years. So I stopped making it.”

How many weeks had Scott been struggling to swallow each bite of Supper on a Slice, I wondered. Had he ever really liked it?

From that day forth, Supper on a Slice was banished from the Stornetta household. I have not made it since. Although my curious children, who have heard the tale of its banishment, have begged me to make it, I have not. It makes a far better story than a supper.

So I bequeath to you a copy of the recipe for Supper on a Slice, not because I expect that the two of you will ever make it, although curiosity might get the better of you. But I do expect this bit of family lore to serve as a reminder in your early days of marriage. May you respectfully and freely speak your minds. May you not suffer trivial matters in silence. May you have the courage to share feelings that might be difficult to share. And may you banish from your household that which most troubles your spouse.

Supper on a Slice

2/3 cup evaporated milk 1 1/2 pounds ground chuck 1/2 cup cracker crumbs 1 egg 1/2 cup onion, chopped 2 teaspoons mustard 2 teaspoons Worcestershire sauce 1/2 teaspoon pepper 1 ½ teaspoons salt 1 teaspoon Accent 1-2 cups shredded cheese (Cheddar and Monterey jack) 1 loaf French or Italian bread	Combine the ingredients well. If you like you may reserve some of the cheese to top the mixture. Place foil on a cookie sheet. Cut the loaf in half lengthwise. Place the bread slices on top of the foil. Crush the foil around the sides of the bread, but do not cover the top. Spread the mixture on the cut sides of the bread. Sprinkle with reserved cheese if desired.
Bake at 325 degrees for 45 minutes. Cut the bread into 2 to 3-inch pieces to serve. .

Lost and Found

Today we discussed the three parables on redemption: the Parable of the Lost Sheep, the Parable of the Lost Coin and the Parable of the Lost or Prodigal Son (Some have suggested the parable would be better named the Parable of the Compassionate Father. I agree--both sons are in some sense lost and both seem to be reclaimed by a compassionate and loving father.)

Activities: I started out with a rather fun activity that was perhaps a bit too noisy for the class meeting on the stage. Before class, I took some gold and silver coins, play tender, of course, and hid them around the ward gym.  I asked the students to find them. (If it had not been fast Sunday, I would have used chocolate coins, which would have increased the energy level of the class, both before and after the search.) We avoided turning on the lights in the gym, relying on the bit of light from the skylights, so the darkness help conveyed the difficulty the woman had in finding her coins.

Anyway, my students identified with the searching, finding, and rejoicing of the woman.

Class Goodies:
The Ring: Because it was Fast Sunday, there were no goodies today. Instead I brought some cheap rings from Party City to represent the ring that the father gave his prodigal son. The rings were nice and sparkly and we talked about how the ring was a signet that symbolized the authority and heritage of the father and the son. Had I thought ahead, I would have bought some CTR rings while I was in Utah last week. They might have more aptly conveyed a sense of a royal heritage. Alas, not thinking well enough ahead.

While at Party City, I did pick up some ring pops. I intend to use them next week to review. I have always found it helpful to use the symbols a second time to see if my students can remember a week later what we talked about. (Sometimes when I ask my class what we talked about last week, one student will first remember what we ate and then use it to clue him into what our theme had been.)

The Fatted Calf: Of course, I had forgotten it was Fast Sunday until Friday evening. So I spent the past two weeks thinking up an appropriate feast for my class. There were many possibilities. First, I thought about a fatted calf. I was thinking about Beef Shish Kabobs to represent the fatted calf. Nathan pooh-poohed the idea. He didn't think it really represented a fatted calf. Not enough fat, and he felt small pieces of meat did not adequately convey the sense of an entire calf roasted for a celebration.

Point well taken, so I thought of other ways to represent the fatted calf. I thought of a bacon-wrapped roast or filet mignon. Too much work for a Sunday morning, so I abandoned the fatted calf idea. Ring pops sounded like a much easier feat.

Shepherd's Pie or Sheepherder's Bread: I also considered each of these to get us into the mindset of the Shepherd. While we hearkened back to our discussion of shepherds from a few weeks before, I decided to focus more on the other two parables.


Coin Cake: I think I probably would have gone with a tradition from my childhood. My mother used to bake us coin cakes for our birthdays. She would wrap pennies, nickels, a few dimes and one quarter in foil and then drop them into the batter of an angel food cake. She then frosted the cake with chocolate frosting. There was enough money in each cake for all of us to get something. Nonetheless we all hoped for the quarter. Some of my nieces and nephews became so obsessed with finding money, they would eat or at least pick through three or four pieces of cake, necessitating my mother's baking at least two cakes for every birthday.

I am not quite sure where my mother got this tradition, but it is similar to the King Cakes of many European traditions at epiphany and of Louisiana at Mardi Gras. Anyway, I think the cake would have conveyed aspects of the parable--searching for hidden coins, and the delighting and sharing the discovery of coins.

Any Given Day

“What kind of mother would leave a four-year-old outside unsupervised?”  That was my reaction many, many years ago in my small, insular Utah community when I heard the story of Rachael Runyon.  Her busy mother had sent Rachael and her three older brothers outside to play in the summer sun while she watched from inside.  She alternated making lunch and cleaning the kitchen with perfunctory looks out the kitchen window.  And in a glance, Rachael was gone.  Abducted by a brazen kidnapper from her mother’s distracted care.  Her preoccupation with the dishes suddenly vanished as she stood at the kitchen sink.  Rachael was gone.  

            Three children and many sleepless nights later, in my comfortable New Jersey community, the doorbell roused me from a short nap in the middle of the afternoon.  I had spent the previous night testing my daughter Chrissy’s blood sugar every few hours.  Sometimes it seemed her diabetes was more demanding than a newborn. So while she and her brother were in school, I parked my four-year-old Daniel, my youngest, in front of the video.  (Something my pre-mother self swore I would never do.) It must be the UPS man, I thought as I rushed to the door, trying to shake off the daze of an afternoon nap.  I opened the door to my neighbor, holding Daniel’s hand.  He had been happily playing in the front yard, alone. And I thought of Rachael Runyon.  There but for the grace of God go I.

            Teaching and parenting are unique callings.  They require adults to devote hours of attention to children, usually without respite.  Both are very solitary occupations.  We

are alone in our homes and our classrooms.  There we laugh, we play, and we teach.  There also children test our patience when our energy is zapped.  But only those present within the walls of a classroom or home know what happens there.  Most teachers are happy, and most parents are decent.  Yet our contracts with society are rather tenuous.  Society understands our jobs are often thankless and our pay—be it kisses or apples—is not commensurate with the demands and it seeks to placate us with special days for mothers, fathers and teachers.  (When was the last time you honored your dentist, accountant or lawyer?)  At the same time, however, it demands our credentials be impeccable and our behavior perfect.  Our voyeuristic society revels in the nanny cam and whenever a teacher or parent is caught, there are thousands of Americans collectively thinking, “What kind of person would do that?”

Discipline is the task we hold teachers and parents to the highest standards.  To discipline is to systematically instruct a disciple or follower in proper behavior and conduct.  But frequently children do not want to be disciples; they are not little adults eager to be instructed.  They just want to have fun.  And it is at the intersection of their fun and our responsibility that we parents and teachers sometimes lose tempers and we make mistakes.  And we are liable for those snap judgments made in the heat of the moment.  And while I might join society in its snap judgments about egregious parents or teachers, when I read of the teacher, such as Brad Turner who not only lost his job and his teaching license but found himself in the center of a civil lawsuit when he attempted to discipline a student for throwing grapes on the floor, I silently say to myself,  “There but for the grace of God go I.”           

I am only a substitute teacher.  But I am a teacher nonetheless. Today I was reminded of this when I caught myself at my kitchen sink. 

I walk into a different classroom every day.  I must think on my feet.  And experiment.  Anything to engage students, whom I do not know, who thrill at seeing a substitute.  They too want to experiment, to walk the thin line that separates propriety and an in-school suspension.  Today I am in 11^th grade U.S. History. The topic is Hiroshima.  I love U.S. History.  I love Japan.  I lived there for sixteen months.  There could not be a more perfect fit.

I look at the lesson plan.  The class is 80 minutes long.  The teacher has left a 67-minute DVD.  That leaves me thirteen minutes.  When there is no lesson plan, thirteen minutes can be an eternity.  Even videos are not a sure thing.  But Ms. Jones has left some preparatory material, and I have a lot to add. Thirteen minutes is but a blip.  That leaves me fashioning an anticipatory set that can be quickly accomplished.  I cue the DVD, and then I scrawl Hiroshima in Japanese.  (Not in kanji, mind you.  Only in hiragana—the simplest Japanese phonetic alphabet.  It is a bit like writing in rudimentary block letters as opposed to neat, proper script.  But I am counting on the fact that my students will never know the difference.)

Then I stand at the door and welcome my students.  “Konnichi wa,” I say, bowing, my hands pressed together.  

The students stare.  Then laugh.  “Dozo,” or please, I say motioning with my hand for the students to enter the room.

“You’re speaking Chinese, aren’t you?” they question.

“Chigaimasu,” I humbly beg to differ, I reply.  “Nihonogo de hanashimasu.”  I am speaking Japanese.

This is fun.  The students do not also realize the paltry extent of my Japanese.  (There are, of course, no Japanese surnames on the roll—only Chinese or Filipino.) They are perplexed and intrigued, a state not often achieved by a substitute.

But during those brief gleeful moments, I walk into the classroom with some of the students.  The bell has not yet rung, yet I have left my post at the door.  Then, as luck would have it, there is a commotion in the hall.  I return to find a large girl, a very, very large girl, with a half-nelson hold on a not-so-particularly small boy.  I must take razor quick, decisive action.  I feel like the Will Smith character Jay in the movie Men in Black: during a training simulation he must choose to shoot either the obvious threat, a lunging, snarling beast about to attack a man with a briefcase, or a cute eight-year-old girl toting books on advanced physics.  He chooses the girl with the books.  My decision is not so clear-cut.

A teacher can touch a student only if someone’s safety is at risk.  Is someone at risk?  Who?  The boy?  Or me?  Physically intervening will escalate the situation.  Can I handle this with my voice?  I summon my most commanding voice. “Stop that,” I yell.

I am pleasantly surprised. She releases her hold.  But then he quips something back.  She lunges for him again, missing. 

“Stop that,” I yell even more forcefully.  And to the small crowd, I add, “Get to class.”  I pause.  “NOW!!”  

It works.  The crowd disperses and to my surprise the girl strolls into my class.

I begin my lesson.  But it is not as much fun.  Questions dart through my head. Why did I let my attention be diverted?  Why was I not patrolling the hall?  Would this have happened if I had been at my post?  Should I have called security?  Can a substitute even assign detention?  What if they hadn’t listened to me?  How would the newspaper have portrayed me? 

What kind of teacher would do that?  I now know the answer to the question.  I am that teacher.  And the truth is, so is just about any teacher.   Experience helps.  So does a level head, compassion and caring.  But any given Monday or Tuesday, almost any teacher can make a very simple mistake. And any given day after, there will be countless, indignant armchair quarterbacks questioning that teacher’s call.  Some of those teachers are exceptional.  Some are not.  But none of them gets the benefit of the doubt.

Long ago, male physicians learned to protect themselves by having a female nurse present when conducting gynecological exams.  Service representatives record their phones calls for quality assurance. Policemen have videotapes admissible in court.  Lawyers have attorney-client privilege to mask some of their mistakes.  CEOs have press secretaries and public relations firms to positively spin their mistakes and nice retirement packages just in case.  Teachers have only a classroom of trust.  A trust that surprisingly is not shattered more frequently and a union, which pays the bills when accusations fly, but cannot save even innocent teachers from public pillory.

Me?  I have no union.  I am only a substitute teacher.  I stand at my kitchen sink, and I think I understand what kind of mother Rachael Runyon had.  There but for the grace of God go I.

Texting Mother

When did mothers suddenly become so popular? I have spent the past few weeks pondering the question.

I am not talking about the preschool set. Mothers have always polled exceptionally high among that demographic, especially those with persistent separation anxiety. I am talking about teen-agers. They who roll their eyes at their parents’ sage suggestions. They who bud their ears to avoid adult dinner conversation. They who lol with their bffs when their homework, which never seems to get done, beckons.

Last week, in an hour-long high school honors class I confiscated four different cell phones, one mid-test. This despite my oh-so-pleasant request, prompted by a student blatantly texting as I introduced myself as their substitute teacher, that they put their cell phones away. Because my request only prompted half of the class to act, I followed up with a not-so-veiled threat to confiscate any phones that I saw in use.

“But it’s my mother,” the first boy protests as I demand his phone. I hope he is cleverer in class than he is in his texting. Only a few feet from my desk, he has assumed the “standard” classroom texting pose, both hands under the desk, the phone centered in the lap held just under the edge of the desk.  A pose that often prompts colleagues to embarrass the violators with innuendo as to their actions.

I can only assume from his furtive glances from test to phone that he is cheating, texting a friend or searching the Internet to find the answers he does not know. But, not ready to unleash a firestorm of privacy and first amendment issues, I dare not look at the text. I put the phone in my pocket without so much as a glance. I treasure my paltry income as a substitute teacher. I then lean down to pick up the fluorescent blue study guide stretched out underneath the desk of his less tech-savvy neighbor. My how the nature of cheating has changed.

Does his mother know, I wonder. Not that he cheats, but that he blames it on her.

The second student attempts the “camouflage” pose. She assumes her prime spot in a back corner of the room and her large bag situated just so on her desk protects her texting from my purview. She is far more interested in reading her texts than the class novel. At least she has finished her test. Aware of my presence as I move into her zone, she does the “quick slip,” a quick slide of the cell phone from the desktop to the pant pocket, a move not nearly as discreet as most students presume. She hopes the bag hides her move. But it does not. And, like a shy child hiding in her mother’s skirt, she hopes to hide behind the excuse of texting her mother.

It is March 25^th.  Perhaps she celebrates Mother’s Day in Slovenia, I think. Perhaps she forgot to buy her a present. Perhaps she worries her mother will feel neglected. Perhaps.

“It’s her mother,” a voice claims automatically as I ask for the third phone. My eyes are no longer young, but I am fairly certain the gallant defender cannot read her text from his desk two rows behind her, even though she has assumed the “about face” classroom texting pose, her torso uncomfortably twisted, leaning into the aisle, in order to face the rear of the room as she texts. Like a two-year-old who covers her eyes and assumes the world can no longer see her, this student assumes her back turned to me makes her cell phone invisible. She has heard my threat. She has seen me confiscate. She has recognized my intent. But there is an urgency she cannot ignore. She is driven to text.

Mother must be a helicopter parent, I conclude.  Or a tiger mother. Compelled to please, she has aced the test and cannot wait to share her success with her mother. Her text is clearly worth the risk.

The fourth student does not even try to hide his cell phone. There are eight minutes left in class. He employs the “it is my right” pose. He sits on the front row, elbows planted on the desk, holding his phone up to eye level as his thumbs fly over the keys, oblivious to my stare as I stand a few feet away. He seems genuinely surprised when I move only inches away and hold out my demanding hand, flat, palm up in the universal classroom sign language for “hand-over-your-phone.”

“But I thought class was over,” he protests. Which translated means, “If I do not find the class work compelling and if there is less than ten minutes remaining in class, then I have the right to use my cell phone.” A god-given right, I am sure, if I were to poll the class. At least he does not claim he is texting his mother. Surely she must feel neglected.

Two years ago pollster Joel Benenson found that the average student sends more than three texts per class. That means that there were at least sixty-three text messages sent during that honors class. (Perhaps a few less if I were to factor in the four confiscated phones.) If I were to assume that by average, Benenson means a true arithmetic mean and not a mythical average like that in Lake Wobegon, and if I were to assume that there are at least a few students in my class who do not just appear to be, but are actually completing the test and reading their books instead of texting, then I am led to an astounding conclusion: there are two or three students in my class who love their mothers so much that they sent them at least five texts during the hour I was with them. (I certainly hope those mothers appreciate my efforts.) Furthermore, if all these students text their mothers as often as is claimed when caught, then the average mother should receive at least fifteen texts from each child every day. Imagine all those average, happy mothers. Getting texts, affirming they are far from average in their children’s eyes. Every day. Every hour.

None of my three children sends me a text each day. They whom I have willingly nursed and diapered. They for whom I have whooped and cheered unreservedly during tediously long little league games. They for whom I have applauded wildly as I shivered during torrential downpours at band competitions. They who have unlimited texting for which I pay. I consider myself fortunate to receive an occasional text requesting a ride home. Which, as I consider these statistics, creates great maternal angst. And questioning. Why am I so unpopular with my children? Am I not average? (For my children are certainly far, far above average.) Do my children not love me? Have they forgotten my number?

And ultimately I am led to choose between two conclusions: either my children do not use their cell phones during class or they do not love me. Naively I am assuming the first.

Can You Hear Me Now?

"He that hath ears to hear, let him hear!" (Matthew11:15).

The image: Our ears. We use our ears to hear, to listen and to perceive and understand our surroundings. The Savior frequently suggests we use our ears to hear not only the temporal but also the spiritual. Developing our spiritual hearing is critical because frequently the Lord speaks using parables or symbols in order to protect sacred things from the unworthy.

The food: “Elephant ears” are delicate, flaky cookies also called palmiers, or palm leaves, by the French. (Do not confuse these cookies with the carnival fare, also called elephant ears, which are fried pastry, a lot like a Utah scone, which should not be confused with English scones.) These cookies are incredibly addictive and very easy to make.

The recipe:

2 sheets puff pastry, thawed

1 ¾ cups sugar

1/8 teaspoon salt

2 teaspoons ground cinnamon, if desired

Thaw the puff pastry thoroughly, about thirty minutes. Preheat the oven to 400 degrees.

Mix sugar with salt. Spread ¾ cup sugar on a clean, flat surface. Unfold the pastry over the sugar. Mix remaining the sugar with cinnamon, if desired. Spread ½ cup sugar over dough. With a rolling pin, roll the dough into a 10 X 13-inch rectangle while pressing the sugar into the dough on both sides. (There will be a lot of sugar remaining on the flat surface.)

Starting at the long ends of the rectangle, tightly each side until they meet in the middle. (For larger cookies, roll from the short end.) Place the rolled dough in freezer until stiff, about 15 minutes. Repeat the process with the second sheet.

Remove the chilled dough and with sharp knife cut slices ¼-½-inch thick. Place the slices cut side down, about two inches apart on parchment-lined cookie sheets.

Bake about 10-12 minutes or until golden brown and puffy. The cookies burn easily, so watch carefully during the final minutes.

Store in an airtight container. Cookies can be crisped a day later by heating for a few minutes in a 350 degree oven.

Activities:

• Marco Polo: Choose a player to be “it.” With his or her eyes closed or covered with a blindfold, the “It” tries to “tag” someone by using his hearing. This player shouts “Marco” and the other players respond with “Polo.”  This continues until the “It” tags another player, who then becomes the new “It.”

• Parable Go Fish

Preparations: Make a deck of cards using either the names of the different parables or the elements of a specific parable you will be teaching. Label each card, and if you like, find a corresponding picture. Print the card on card stock and make four copies of each card.

For example, for the “Parable of the Sower,” I made up five different cards titled, The Parable of the Sower, Seeds on the Wayside Eaten by Birds, The Seeds in a Stony Place that Have No Root, Seeds Choked by Thorns, and Seeds in Good Soil that Bring Forth Good Fruit.

To play the game:

·      Deal each player 5 cards. (More if your deck is large or there are only a few players.) Place the remaining deck or “pool” in the center of the players.

·      Take turns asking for particular cards to match those in their hands. For example, “John, do you have any “The Parable of the Sower” cards?” John must turn over all of his Parable of the Sower cards, or if he has none, he tells the requester to “Go Fish.”

·      Play continues until one player has no more cards. The player with the most matches wins.

What Are the Odds?

"Daniel, it's seven o'clock. We need to leave in ten minutes." I yell up the stairs. Daniel is a good boy. Responsible. He has a bit of his sister Chrissy in him. He can go from 0 to 60 in three seconds and get out the door in five. When he wants to.

I finish dressing. Khakis. I just can't bring myself to be a schoolteacher in jeans on casual Friday. Blue sweater. Blue socks. Brown shoes. Should I wear my clogs, casual and comfortable, or my loafers.

I brush my teeth.

"Five minutes." No grunt. "Do you hear me?" I ask. Finally, a grumbled acknowledgment.

My hair looks funny. I fiddle with it. What are the odds? I thought it was impossible to have a bad hair day on Friday.

"I really don't want to be late to work." More grumblings.

I brush my teeth.

"I mean it." Tone a bit aggravated. It is already 7:15. What is the probability I will be on time? The odds are even if we leave in five minutes.

I grab my computer. Throw a sandwich in a bag with a banana and juice. Grab my jacket, get my keys, quickly slide my feet into my shoes. I decide against the total comfort of the clogs.

I will be late.

I start the car. I wait. In a whirlwind, Daniel finally scrambles in.

“I’m going to drop you off at Suvio’s.”

Grumble.

“If I can bypass the high school traffic, I might yet make it to the middle school on time.”

Grumbled acceptance and slammed door.

I make it to the middle school parking lot with one minute to spare. Grab my computer and my purse. Begin a hurried walk to the door. But something’s not right. My gait is off. There is a looseness on my left side.

I look down at my shoes. Two different shoes. Not a right and a left shoe, but a right and a left shoe from two different pairs of shoes. The left is suede and has a tassel. My loose, go-to comfy loafer. The right is smooth leather and a slightly darker brown than the suede. It is plain, no tassel, and the opening rides up much higher on my foot. My tight, supportive shoe. There is no loaf in this shoe.

No time to run home. Maybe no one will notice, I think.  I hope.

And as I rush through the door to sign in, I remember my mother. She must have been about my age. One morning she too was running late. She overslept. She dressed quickly to get out the door in order to meet her carpool. Only in the car as she relaxed did she realized she had forgotten to don a bra. And this in an era when only defiant love children went without.

She suffered the entire day. Uncomfortable in a day of meetings in a world surrounded by women she felt were far more sophisticated and well-dressed than she. (Alas, she loved her fellow sisters of the General Board of the Relief Society, but she always felt she never quite measured up.) But she survived. She made it home without anyone ever being the wiser. That is, until she told me and I summarily told everyone I knew about it.

“I am Mrs. Stornetta. I will be your substitute teacher today.” And I wonder. What is the probability that at least one of my forty-nine students that morning will notice? I am a little uncomfortable. Seventh-graders can scrutinize. Why am I threatened by the seventh-grade fashion police? Were I a betting woman, I would bet against myself.

As students begin to consider how many combinations of sneakers and loafers and red and black and plaid caps Johnny could wear, I think of a new problem. Mrs. Stornetta oversleeps. Her three pairs of brown shoes are lined up in a row. What is the probability that she will choose a pair that matches?

Yet no one notices. Except the office secretary to whom I confess my fashion faux pas. I hope she is a bit more tight-lipped than I was about my mother's confession. I quickly leave the school as soon as the bell rings. Like Cinderella I want to make it home before my good fortune wears off. And as I kick off my mismatched pair and slide into a comfy chair, I think of my mother again. I am my mother.

What are the odds?

Burning Brightly

So today I am pretty tired and pretty busy. I was up at 5am. Must make it through work. Then I must prepare a dinner for Sister Suarez. A broken ankle.

I come home at lunch (because I was at TJ--Thomas Jefferson Elementary School). Chop onions, garlic, carrots, and celery. Hope the scent of the onions and garlic on my hands will not repulse the third graders I am working with. Saute in olive oil and leave it. Go back to TJ.

Come home after school. Reheat sauted vegetables, add tomatoes, herbs and simmer my marinara sauce. At the same time proof yeast, then make Italian bread dough. As it kneads in my KitchenAid, I sit down for a few minutes to check bread recipe.

Then when sauce has simmered, begin with the pasta. Cook box of pasta while rolling out bread dough. Make three long loafs. Cover and let them rest on my pizza peel.

Drain pasta. Begin second box of pasta. (Yes, I should have boiled it all together in one pot, but I just wasn't committed to making that much pasta when I started.) Combine sauce, pasta, and mozzarella, Parmesan, Asiago, and Romano. Put Ziti in oven.

Slash bread loaves with my lovely new lame. Brush with egg white. Spray with water. Take Ziti out. Put bread in on pizza stone. Spray oven with water to create steam. Set timer for three minutes.

Remove second pot of pasta. Drain it. Spray loaves a second time. Set alarm again.

Then the smoke alarm goes off. A frequent occurrence since we have replaced the smoke alarm. It is very sensitive. Daniel, in the family room, turns off alarm.

Begin combining pasta, sauce and cheese for two smaller pans of Ziti to freeze. Spray bread the third and final time.

"Mom," Daniel says, "There's a fire."

"I know. I know. Some crumbs must be burning in the bottom of the oven," I reply.

"No, Mom." Daniel is insistent. "There's a fire."

I look. I have learned to trust my seventeen-year-old. He is frequently more perceptive than I.

Daniel is right. Yes. There is a fire. A real fire. It is flaming high. It is flaming bright. There is a beauty in the bright orange flame lapping at my towel on my cooktop. I had forgotten to turn off the burner.

A greasy dishtowel--I had used it to cover my orange rolls last night, all four dozen made the night before for Relief Society anniversary dinner--was next to the burner. The dishtowel, which, of course, I should have washed by now, must have fallen onto the burner.

We maneuver the dish towel outside. We pour water on it, hoping to get the flames out before the deck is damaged. The dishtowel is black. It is really burned. But the flames go out. Wet black char and white crumpled towel sit outside the patio doors.

I will miss that dish towel. One of those flour sack dish towels. One that is perfect for covering rising rolls and bread. One that has come to me from my mother's kitchen. One that someone (not me) has taken the time (in the days of Relief Society bazaars) to embroider a pretty lady with a full red skirt. I will miss that dish towel the next time I need to cover my orange rolls.

But what I will really miss is Daniel. How can I let my baby go to college. Who will tell me that my kitchen is on fire when he is gone?

I will miss him.