Midyear exams and foul weather made last week even busier than usual at the school where I ply my trade, assuming one considers imparting literacy skills as a trade which can be plied.
Evaluating midterm essays AND all the overdue assignments that suddenly earnest students handed in on the marking period’s last day left little time for everyday chores, including meal preparation. Fortunately I was prepared, thanks to a recent impromptu stop at a dollar store where, on a whim, I purchased an 8.8-ounce envelope labeled “Spanish Style Rice,” and, in smaller letters “Espagnol Riz,” since apparently Francophones also enjoy eating cheap rice.
Incidentally, “Dollar Store” is actually a misnomer. Everything there now costs a buck and a quarter. They just haven’t gotten around to changing the sign outside yet, I guess.
Some people won’t eat a food product with an expiration date more than two years in the future, but I haven’t heard of any dollar-store-related deaths by food poisoning lately. More importantly, there weren’t any unpronounceable ingredients listed on the package, which I consider a good sign. But the real reason I bought that BPA-Free pouch of gluten-free, plant-based, non-GMO, certified Halal and Kosher, artificial-flavor-and-color-free Spanish Style Rice was its directions. Microwave for 90 seconds, let cool for another 90, then eat. What could be more convenient when food preparation time is limited?
After a 12-hour day at school last Wednesday I went straight for the “Spanish Style Rice” packet. Dutifully following the English-language instructions I heated it, let it cool, then ate every last grain of it.
It tasted exactly like rice.
Even better, I didn’t experience even one symptom of botulism, salmonella, E. Coli, or ptomaine poisoning after I had finished.
Another exhausting hour of essay-reading later I brushed my teeth, set my alarm, and went to bed.
What seemed like seconds later I was cutting the grass on my Easton, Connecticut front lawn when my son reminded me it was time to go to school and give my literature exam.
Pausing to appreciate the fact I had fathered such a cute and responsible six- year-old, I went inside to change into school clothes, but then disaster struck. My closet contained only left shoes! There wasn’t a single right-footed sneaker, moccasin, boot, or loafer to be found! I also couldn’t locate my car keys. Panicked, I began walking (barefoot) to school. Thankfully a passing colleague picked me up, driving until the road ended at a sandy beach. At that point the two of us climbed, hand over hand, across a length of chain suspended high over a body of water that took us to an island restaurant being run by a former Portland Sea Dog outfielder. We ate quickly, not wanting to be any later than we already were. Then the pay phone on the wall rang; it was the principal’s secretary, wondering if and when we were planning on showing up that morning.
Then I rolled over, saw “3:33 AM” displayed on my digital alarm clock, and realized everything I had just experienced was imaginary. I don’t live (or cut grass) in Connecticut anymore, my cute six-year-old son is actually 25, and the two rivers I cross to get to school each morning are spanned by bridges.
I’ve had troubling dreams about being tardy for important appointments in the past, but none as bizarre, fanciful and enjoyable as this one. I’ve earmarked five dollars for my next four envelopes of Espagnol Riz. But I won’t be going to the dollar store until after the school day is over.
That way there’s no chance I’ll be late.
Andy YoungReturn to main page
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