Assignment 14: Flying Turkeys--Amir Abou-Jaoude

In my 8th grade health class, we had to complete a cooking project. The idea was that you were supposed to make a nutritious breakfast, lunch, and dinner for your family. The project was supposed to teach you about a balanced meal and give you experience with the fundamentals of cooking.

To say the least, my cooking project turned out to be a little rocky. I tackled the lunch portion of the assignment first, and made hot dogs wrapped in crescent rolls. However, I had put them in the oven for a little too long. Needless to say, my "pigs in a blanket" were a little crisp when they were finished cooking. This oversight, however, seemed small when compared to the catastrophe that occurred when I was preparing breakfast.

For breakfast, I had decided to make pancakes. Everyone in my family liked pancakes. Besides, if the dish was served with fruit and a cup of coffee or orange juice, it was extremely nutritious. I pulled out the pancake recipe, the one that my mom and dad always used when they were preparing the treat. We had all the ingredients. The flour, the sugar, the salt, the eggs, the milk, the canola oil. I put the dry ingredients with the dry ingredients and the wet ingredients with the wet ingredients. I mixed the two together, and the batter was almost complete. I glanced down at the recipe, printed in a very small font, and noticed that the last ingredient was baking soda.

I opened the pantry, searching for the baking soda. After a few minutes, I found it. It was a small white tub, emblazoned with huge red letters. It simply said, "CLABBER-GIRL BAKING SODA." Below the text was a picture of a menacing girl, her head cocked, her visage dominated by a crooked grin. She looked like she had wandered from a 1950s B-movie onto a can of baking soda.

I cracked open the container and got a teaspoon to measure out the substance. The edges of the container were surprisingly sharp. I reached down into the container and counted out two teaspoons of baking soda, just like the recipe said.

Then, I noticed that there was something crimson in the pancake batter. I wondered what it was.  I looked down at my hands. 

I was bleeding. I had cut my hands on one of the container's sharp edges. The Clabber-Girl had clabbered me.

My mom, upon hearing my account of my breakfast disaster, threw the batter out. I was forced to start all over again, this time with her careful supervision. So far, my health class cooking project had been an unmitigated disaster, a comedy of accidents and errors. The only thing I had left to cook was dinner. This was my last chance to redeem myself.

That Thursday happened to be Thanksgiving, and my mother enlisted me to help with the preparations. This way, I would complete the cooking project and be absolved of my unfortunate Clabber-Girl calamity. I was given the task of preparing the mashed potatoes and the cranberry sauce. I made sure I followed all the instructions, followed the correct cooking procedure, and above all, did not cut myself on any container edges.

Soon, all the food was set out on the table, including my mashed potatoes and my cranberry sauce. It was very much a typical Thanksgiving for my family--friends and family sitting around the dinner table, partaking in the traditional holiday menu. However, this time I was anxious. What if the cranberry sauce tasted like wood and the mashed potatoes tasted like leather? Would I be forgiven for the bloody pancake disaster? Would I fail the cooking project?

My fears were assuaged when the cranberry sauce and the mashed potatoes were pronounced to be delicious. I relaxed and enjoyed the holiday with my family. That Thanksgiving was special for me because I had helped in preparing the meal and understood the obstacles faced on a day-to-day basis in the kitchen. Happily, not only did I pass the cooking project, but I was also forgiven for my early morning mishap. My mother never invited Clabber-Girl into the pantry again.