TouchedByMadness

Baaaaa, Humbug

The holidays always remind me of my days as a Catholic schoolgirl. When everyone in the class goes to the church down the road, no one worries about being PC and learning about Passover. We celebrated all the Christian holidays without a moment’s worry over offending a Jehovah’s witness. As far as the school was concerned, we all walked (and partied) with Jesus. Heathens would just have to miss out on photo ops with the Easter Bunny.

Each holiday, our teachers scrambled to prepare a “feast” for their classes. They would cook a special festive meal to share with the students. In theory, it sounds great. But when you’re a kid (and most likely a picky eater), straying from a Stove-Top stuffed Butterball is a big no no.

So, you can imagine my horror when as a fourth grader I was served a funny-smelling slab of meat for Easter dinner. I looked at my classmates, shifting anxiously in my uncomfortable plastic chair. They looked similarly distressed. We didn’t know what the mystery meat was, but we were quite certain it wouldn’t taste like chicken. Finally, someone was brave enough to ask for an identification of the entree.

“It’s lamb,” the teacher said cheerfully.

Our eyes grew wide and we stared at our plates. We were going to celebrate our Savior’s resurrection by devouring a dead baby animal. In my head I heard, Mary had a little lamb . . . and she ate it.

Suddenly the class collectively took up an interest in the side dishes. I saw eggs. Dyed Easter eggs. There we go! That was familiar! I selected a bright blue egg from the bowl and began to peel off the colored shell to reveal . . . a colored “white.” The dye had permeated clear through to the yolk which, in my young mind, was as good as making it radioactive. I put my blue egg down on my plate and hung my head.

“Stacey, you haven’t touched your food. You need to eat something,” the teacher scolded.

“I don’t want it,” I mumbled.

“We don’t waste the perfectly good food that our Lord has graciously provided for us,” she continued.

“I can’t eat it.”

“You haven’t even taken a bite.”

She stood over me as I cut up Fleecy and tried to eat it without grimacing. It tasted awful and I swore I heard the meat say “Baa” every time I chewed. After just one piece, I had had enough. I put down my utensils in silent protest.

“Stacey, what is the problem?” the teacher asked testily.

What was the problem? Was she mad? The problem was obvious. She didn’t know how things worked. She was forcing us to eat something foreign and bizarre and I, for one, would not have it. I crossed my arms and pouted.

“I do not like blue eggs and lamb.”