You don't call, you don't write...

When you've been away as long as I have, it's almost like starting over. I certainly can't--and shouldn't--update you on the minutiae of the last month, so instead I'll jump into the uninteresting minutiae of today.

Our cool and cloudy August has not helped our tomato crop, but today I finally had enough ripe tomatoes to make our first batch of salsa. Today is also the day I was reminded that my memories of the process of making salsa are much more pleasant than the actual act of making salsa. Important distinction. I was also reminded why I typically make a double, triple, or even quadruple batch: whether I'm chopping one green pepper or four, the food processor still has to be taken apart and cleaned. The difference is whether or not I'm going to do that 10 times in the next month or 4. (Note: there will be no more single batches, even if I have to take my tomatoes to a tanning bed as "prep work.")

The salsa turned out fine, although I cannot seem to get the jalapeno oil off my fingers. I feel like Chevy Chase in Christmas Vacation, when he's plagued with sap on his hands, except instead of ripping pages out of magazines and towing a lamp into bed, I'm giving myself minor skin burns every time I rub my eyes or scratch my nose.

Outside of that, this is our first weekend since the start of the school year. I now understand why not a lot of time is spent teaching children the days of the week before they enter school: what's the point? What day is it? I think it's, I-get-up-and-watch-Sesame-Street-while-mommy/daddy/grandma-makes-breakfast. That's what day it was yesterday, too. But now, since starting Kindergarten, Bella has a new appreciation for the differences in the days of the week. For example, next week she's only eating hot lunch on Friday. And she has Music on Wednesday. She starts soccer on Tuesday. She rides the Blue Squirrel bus on Friday but the Black Cat bus every other day. And on Saturday she gets to decide for herself what she wants to do. Ahhhhhh. The concept of the weekend is starting to take shape in her head. However, this morning she did declare she wanted to go to school but settled for wearing her new soccer shoes and shin guards with her Strawberry Shortcake pajamas in the back yard instead. She's all about compromise, that one.

My first week at school was relatively uneventful. I met all of my new freshmen, welcomed back a great group of 12 seniors, and continued to work on getting my classroom in order. (Note: not there yet.) I had the opportunity to move from teaching English 9 to teaching English 11 after my first year at this school, but I passed it up because I enjoy the freshman curriculum (Romeo and Juliet, The Odyssey). I also enjoy freshmen, which seems an impossibility for some of my colleagues. They often shake their heads when I say I passed up teaching the juniors, and I try to explain that freshmen have a certain energy about them that disappears by the time they enter their sophomore year. They're still a little silly, uninhibited, innocent. In fact, even in my first week I encountered a perfect example of this innocence.

My students were engaged in independent reading at their seats, and a freshman girl raised her hand for assistance. I walked over to her table, and she held up her book (Kite Runner), her finger on a word in the middle of the page. "What does this word mean?" she asked. I looked at the word. I looked at her. I looked at the word again. Was she messing with me? I said, cautiously, "It means what you think it means." She peered at me blankly. "But...I don't know what it means." Did I mention that some freshmen are awkwardly innocent? I chose my words carefully and said, "It's a derogatory term for the female genitalia." She raised her eyebrows and said, "Oohhhhhh..." I thought to myself, "Yeah. 'Ohhhh.' And I look forward to the call from your parents." C U Next Tuesday!