Strawberry Soup: a Cautionary Tale
Cheer for Kurn Hattin, to us so dear. We'll strive for the standards set for us here, we'll cherish fond memories--though far we rove. Cheer for Kurn Hattin, the school we love!Sometimes I miss the Homes. That's me over on the far right, and behind that group of my friends is the cottage where I hung my hat for 5 years. By the time I became a student there, Kurn Hattin had been serving children in need for over a century. They had a narrow approach to discipline, one concerning hard work, sports, extra chores and church- the final being a big disappointment to the Catholic kids who left an hour before the Protestants but came back for lunch after them.
With out question, one of the best dishes Kurn Hattin prepared was strawberry soup. The sheer novelty of a cold soup that tasted like desert was much enjoyed and much coveted. Said simply—for a room full of 12-year-olds, strawberry soup was Nintendo but edible. I’m talking seconds, thirds, and possibly fourths if you asked a different adult and were particularly speedy.
The kitchen staff demanded respect, mind. The head chef had this song he would always sing as we slid our trays along accepting or eschewing proffered spoonfuls of this or that, the tune may have changed depending on his mood but the lyrics stayed the same: ‘You don’t like it, you don’t eat it; frankly we don’t care.’ Richard was his name; he favored a lampshade mustache and a baseball cap with Taz on it. His salads always contained too many kinds of leaves, I would rather pass than puff on the quiche and he never did manage to cook the chicken all the way through. But this story isn’t about him. It’s about one of his workers, Izzy.
She was German, elderly and amusing to chat with. A pot once fell during grace and she loudly alleged the existences of ghosts. She was thick in a grandma sort of way, big flaps for arms and a hooked nose that could have seemed witchy on anybody else. Probably the most interesting thing about her was that she had a glass eye. She would take it out and "stare" it at you but this she would only do after several whiny pleas. More commonly you could expect to see a plastic gloved hand correct it while you waited in line. She was much talked about.
Fifth grade science class, my first year. Ms. Smith was doing her section on water testing and pH balance. I won't say I punched my lab partner in the face for contaminating our sample, but I will say I was a Foe-Hammer in the name of the scientific method. I socked her once in the nose and it was over. No, it would never be over because it was a political hit. I outranked her, sat further back in the bus, had been there longer. She, however, would continue to test my authority as long as it appeared siege worthy. Champion for the method as I was, she fell instead to the ground, bleeding like a burst dam all over her shirt and her failed hypothesis. I was beyond shocked. Nervous waves of guilt and glee shot through me. Without a word Mrs. Smith made her face spell out disappointment and by the wrist to the office I was lead. It was awhile before I would get to see anybody who had the authority to hand down punishment and I could already hear my class moving towards the lunchroom.
Given the time to think I suddenly remember my cottage mates saying what lunch would be that morning at breakfast. We had all boasted about how many bowls we would consume. But here I was locked in one of those little rooms again. Five paces across. Four paces deep. White walls. No windows. A single desk—screwed shut. The familiar suspended ceiling I had once scurried through to escape this room's twin halfway across campus. Thought it was the water damage that did me in, they made me pay for every tile I broke. Still worse, it took months for it to not hurt when I laughed after my falling out over Mr. Quinny’s desk.
After some begging, the secretary with the drawn-on eyebrows informed me that my lunch would be brought to me here. I would not get seconds. More than likely, I would get a half portion so that the soup wouldn't spill on it's way over here. I could think of nothing else as I paced. Its creamy pink constancy, those bits of almost thawed strawberry--the fact that I couldn’t have it right away! That settled it. It was to be my greatest accomplishment; I was going to score myself a secret bowl—on top of what they would send me! I'd play the bathroom card. Everyone needed to go, she’d buy it. Word travels fast at such a small school. They must know by now that I had finally put Ginny Ga-rah rah in her place and now even she knew that I wasn’t “all talk” as she had claimed boldly in front of others.
I made my way to the lunchroom, trying to keep my head down. I knew better then to appear proud of my actions in public. All the teachers ate lunch in that cafeteria and I loved Mrs. Smith. In the end I decided going right in there would cause too much of a ruckus. Instead I went out the front door via the coatroom, circled around the back so that no one in the lunchroom could see me, came in through the trash-out entrance and shuffled in behind Izzy. I had been gone 3 minutes already. If I didn’t get back soon, they would start to wonder—and if the secretary saw me I would be looking at 2 to 3 days of extra in-school suspension on top of whatever they wanted to give me for Ginny.
Izzy didn’t notice me as I hid my size in the length of her shadow. She was dropping a pan and talking to herself about the ghost who'd done it. I got around her noiselessly using her clamor to mask my own smaller sounds. I looked over her shoulder and then aghast all around--seemingly the last pan of strawberry soup was making an ugly little beautiful, spreading out over the tiles as from out the pan she fished HER EYE!
I could have eaten my fist. Okay, maybe I was overreacting; it may not have been the very last pan. No time to check now. No time for anything now. People were filing in to point. I had to get out of there! I risked my freedom for some soup that I couldn’t trust her not to serve even though it had clearly been contaminated. I ran back to my cell, through the auditorium, behind the curtain, used the back stage door that lead into the music room--up the stairs and down the atrium that no student was allowed to use. My heart forgot it’s rhythm as I ran. If only I had gone to the bathroom like I said I had. Fool, Erin you always do this to yourself. There was no way I was going eat the soup when it came to me. How could I? That dream was spilled like so much strawberry soup.
I made it back safely and few moments later someone brought my tray with two bowls of the suspicious stuff. They were smiling and I couldn’t help but wonder why. I spooned through the first trying to find some sign. A nice sized drip splashed on my lip as I examined a small sample but I did not lick it away. All the strawberry parts reminded me of that junk I saw floating around that jarred sheep’s eye in the science lab—what a sucky lunch. I ate the peanut butter and jelly sandwich instead, one side wheat, one side white. I was suddenly feeling very remorseful.
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excape /
Kurn Hattin /
Post Modern Talko /
Protestants /
Strawberry soup /
Sunday
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