State testing and soup: At least ONE of those things is easy to swallow

"Why are we doing this again," my husband asked as he chopped potatoes for the hot dog soup we were preparing. Brad HATES hot dog soup. Even the smell makes him shudder so he was being a true champion. "It's the last day of state testing," I explained, "and I want to reward my students for working so hard." "This is considered a reward?" he said incredulously, watching in horror as I stirred hundreds of fried hot dog coins into my simmering mixture of crushed tomatoes and onions.

Sydney arrived home from work and immediately wrinkled her nose. "Is that hot dog soup," she worriedly wondered. "It's not for you," I snapped, more annoyed than ever as I watched relief wash over her face. "It's my way of showing my 4th graders that I appreciate their efforts. They're going to eat lunch in the classroom, enjoying a bowl of hot dog soup while watching "Johnny Tremain." Sydney stared at me. "That sounds AWFUL. I thought you liked your kids. Have you never heard of ice cream or even just a cookie?"

I would not be daunted by the cruel teasing of my family (except for Savannah who checked the postal rates on shipping a bowl out to her). Lugging my eighty pound crockpot, I staggered up the sidewalk to the school. Enjoying the scene on the security camera, the school secretary, Joanne took pity on me and opened the doors as I approached. She then gave me a detailed history of why boiled hot dogs should be eradicated from the very face of the planet. I watched as even the thought of hot dogs made her wretch. I was starting to get a queasy feeling in my stomach. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea.

Having built up a bowl of hot dog soup to the equivalency level of the Second Coming, my 4th graders were beyond excited as our brew bubbled away. "I like your ladle," several said, making me blush. My free-standing lime green dinosaur ladle had been a passive-aggressive gift from an Italian girlfriend who refuses to even accept the notion of hot dog soup as a member of the food pyramid.

My administrator popped in with some words of encouragement and remarked, "Mmmm...something smells good." A rare comment indeed in a 4th grade classroom. When told, I watched him carefully extract himself from our lunchtime invitation by saying that, while he liked the smell, he wasn't really a big fan of hot dogs.

We are aware, People, that hot dogs are considered to be a patriotically American food, right?!? Where is your national pride?

I conducted a brief pre-lunch lecture regarding etiquette between a hostess and her guests. "Gagging is not socially acceptable behavior," I instructed, "when tasting someone's food." I deliberately overlooked the time where I had leaped up from the dinner table, clasped my hands over my mouth, and raced into the restroom to re-direct what I thought was a hard-boiled egg. I still maintain that I had been a victim of sabotage. The gelatinous yolk of my friend Deb's soft-boiled egg came out of nowhere and thus, consequently, HAD to go somewhere. And somewhere was NOT down my throat.

I served up the stew to my eager children and hardened my heart. I should have brought in Hydroxes. Two students politely tapped out before their bowl was even filled. We sat in the darkness, watching in wonder as Red Coats fell in bloodless battle. "Did a bullet even hit that guy," Eric asked in disgust. "Mrs. Mosiman," a voice whispered next to me. "May I have another bowl?" I narrowed my eyes. What was wrong with this kid? Was he teasing me? Had he lost all his tastebuds in a horrific dare-you-to-stick-your-tongue-to-a-metal-pole accident? Was he an Eddie Haskell-syndrome sufferer? I re-filled his bowl and, before I knew it, there was a line of kids (Does three count as a line?) waiting for a second-helping as well! "Thank you, Mrs. Mosiman." grateful little voices called out as I returned to my seat to enjoy my soup and movie.

At the end of this day, I would go home with an empty crockpot and a full heart.