it was probably too much whiskey but i believe the shear romantic appeal of it was just to strong, yet when i was plotting my move back to springfield a job that i applied for was to be a lunch lady.  more specifically the technical term is nutrition services representative, boooyhah!  did you know that this field is actually having a hiring crisis thanks to mrs obama and jamie olivier who are demanding kids actually know what the hell an apple is.

i dreamed of partaking in this food revolution in the classroom, bonding with the grandmas in the kitchen and living one of my passions…feeding people.  springfield has suddenly gone gun-ho.  by the end of this school year all elementary and middle school students will be offered a free breakfast delivered to them in the classroom and elementary schools get 2 snacks of fruits or veggies a day.  i proudly claimed my 2 hairnets and was ready for the challenge.  yes i knew i would probably be repulsed by what is deemed food in the government subsidized world “if you pick low-fat Doritos, they count as your vegetable! (made of corn)”, but what i was not expecting to feel is absolutely defeated.

i am a girl who declares “bring it on!” i will climb shelves, rather than ask for help for getting a high item, i specifically bought a pink helmet so when i pass boys on my fixed gear bike they know its a girl who just sped by, and one of my proudest moments in a professional kitchen was being called an “arrogant bitch.” so what is so defeating about being a lunch lady?

the logistic impossibility of assembling 645 breakfasts in 30 minutes, delivering 100 catering chests in 5 minutes to 3 floors without the use of an elevator, hauling catering racks through parking lots in rain, wind, etc. and having them overturn on the uneven terrain, returning 15 minutes later to pick up all leftover food and then dumping 60% of your work into the trash, whole classrooms won’t have a single kid eat a breakfast, and then  starting the process all over again for the next day.  i’m the youngest in the kitchen, the majority of the women are at least 30-40 years older.  everyday one of them looks at me and says “this is going to kill me”  and what i hate to admit back to them is that some days i feel the exact same way.  although this is the most physical and emotionally challenging thing i have ever done, i am trying damn hard to figure out how to make it my bitch.