The Monday of Living Dangerously

Every now and then, Val throws caution to the wind. Becomes a risk taker of the intermediate order. Attempts a feat others might consider foolhardy. Today was one of those times.

I had packed my lunch as usual. Turkey on whole wheat English muffin, with a side of a snack-size yellow bag of Lays Potato Chips. I plopped it on a paper plate and headed for the cafeteria, where I snagged my rightful seat with my back to the serving line, my vista the entire expanse of tables hosting freshmen in a feeding frenzy. It was Sloppy Joe day. We don't have it often.

Two colleagues were already seated. One eating a salad, the other eating a sammich of some kind. I would call it a sandwich, but it looked more like a sammich. You could tell the guy made it himself. I noted that my left-hand companion had passed me as I was entering. Then I saw the across-the-table gal meander down the hall instead of coming to our table. In fact, my right-hand man had no sooner cut into line ahead of the students when Salad-Eater called to one of the kids, "Hey! Tell Mr. Right-Hand Man that there's mostaccioli in the workroom! We made too much."

Ahem. Was I not worthy? She had watched me unwrap my sandwich and open my chip bag and pour them on the plate. Mr. Right-Hand Man came out with a tray bearing two Sloppy Joes. Two milks. Two cups of fruit salad. Two tray sections of broccoli. "I'll probably finish this, and go get some." He sat down and spread out his lunch like he was Emilio Estevez in The Breakfast Club. Salad-Eater must have suddenly noticed my near-invisible self sitting at Mr. Right-Hand Man's left hand. "Oh, I forgot to tell you. There's mostaccioli in the workroom."

Of course I would not get up to get any at this juncture. Not that I was too proud, mind you. But a good 7-10 minutes of the 23-minute lunch period had already passed. Not enough time to dish up a plate and chow down. Here came Left-Hand Companion and Cross-Table, both bearing steaming plates of mostaccioli. They are not as punctual as I after lunch. They do not have the high-maintenance group that needs above-adequate supervision. The can linger longer.

So...flash forward to the golden ten minutes after final bell. That twilight where you can't leave the building, but technically your day is over. An announcement blared from the ceiling. "Attention, staff. There is mostaccioli in the workroom if you want to take some home for supper." Well. Alrighty then. Remember Supermarket Sweep? Those cart-wielding maniacs had nothing on Val. I ready to be first off the starting line. All I needed was a suitable container. Okay. A container. One that didn't leak.

I ripped open my cabinets and figuratively kicked myself for taking home those four Chinese soup containers I had kept in the cabinet for a month, full of reward sugarless gum for participants in one student's science project. But wait! There was one soup container left. It had been there all along. For years. Full of Hot Wheels cars for a potential/kinetic energy activity. We had just used them a couple weeks ago. Students handling those cars every hour, rolling them down ramps and across the floor. And there they were, sitting in a soup container. I dumped the Hot Wheels out on the shelf. Gave the soup container a quick swipe with a white school-issue paper towel. Val was in business. The mostaccioli business! I took off for the workroom in the manner of Peter, Aunt Polly's cat, after Tom dosed him with Pain Killer.

One staffer was already there, gazing at the large rectangular warming dish. For lack of a container, mostaccioli was lost. But wait. Staffer had kitchen connections, and scurried off to look for mostaccioli transporters. I bellied up to the counter and began wielding the ladel. I pounded that soup container to eliminate air spaces. I packed it full. Salad-Eater wandered in. "Do you need more containers?"

"No, thanks. I have this one. Oh, is this safe? Will we get food poisoning? Has it been sitting out all afternoon?"

"Yes, but it's been on. It's been kept hot. It should be okay."

I guess she knows about food handling. It's kind of her job. Maybe I forgot to mention that this mostaccioli was made by students. Last Friday. And served at the Extraordinary Dance on Saturday night. Then stored until today. And put out again and heated. All afternoon. Until I placed it in an old Chinese soup container that had minutes before held Hot Wheels cars that had been manhandled by freshmen crawling around on the floor.

Every now and then, Val throws caution to the wind.