(For those of you who are not familiar with the situation, Creep is the name of my cat. Disclaimer: I do actually like her most of the time. But not this morning…)

Creep is Evil Personified. She respects absolutely no one and holds everyone around her in an Iron Claw. You will not get away with Anything under her disdainful eye. She only relishes Treats and Chewing on House Plants and Shedding Hair on the Counters. At times, she can be Delightfully Cozy and then turn around and bite the Stuffing out of you for no apparent reason. She particularly despises People Who Have Things To Do and Talking on the Phone. Because she is the only Creature anyone should ever talk to. Creep gets 1 star for Keeping Me Company and 4 stars have been deducted for being Bad Company.

⭐️ alive

—⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ temperamental cactus

-ck

(#challenge accepted chesney)

Cheese comes in a Variety of Smells. Some of it is Wonderful and some of it is Not. You will be Happier if you stick with the Cheese You Know. Cheeses with Weird Names should be avoided at all cost. And beware of People who claim to be Experts on Cheese. They might not be People. Cheese is Mold and therefore should be regarded as such. Would you eat Mold if it Stank??? I highly doubt it. Cheese gets 4 stars for being Good on Everything and 1 star has been deducted for Overwhelming Odor and Being Predictable.

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️tasty snack

-⭐️pew

-ck

(Written by a request to Shed Light upon this particular subject…)

What a poor excuse for Light. They are neither Ceiling Lamps nor Normal Lamps, but vexatiously Somewhere In Between. Most of them are Weak and Uncertain. They have minuscule bases and Vast Ugly Shades and one measly Bulb. Most of the time they have to be furtively Propped Up with Furniture. Or hidden in the Guest Bedroom Closet for unsuspecting Kin to contend with in the Night. I award floor lamps 1 star for Withstanding Mockery and 4 stars have been deducted for Leaning Heavily on Bystanders.

⭐️ thick skin

—⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ don’t

This Christmas vacation with the family,
Like vacations tend to do,
Had a story of hilarity;
So I had to write it down for you.

The feral felines in the yard
Have had their peace disturbed.
It started with the kitty's curiosity,
And ended with the loudest meowing you have ever heard.

"I want a baby kitty.
They're so adorable and cute,"
You could hear the daughter saying,
And this is where The Idea came to fruit.

A laser shining out the window;
These cats had never seen such magic.
They pounced and scurried across the porch
In futile attempts to catch it.

The door was wide open to the air,
And to the threshold they would run,
But Momma hissed, "No further."
Until Bolt came to join in the fun.

At a year, he's existed very long.
There's not a thing he cannot catch.
He's reigned in tyranny over all,
And, so far, scraped by without a scratch.

But, at last, his day came,
Like all days must surely come.
He was far too caught up in chasing
To see where he had sprung.

Suddenly beneath his feet
Was not familiar porch and dirt,
But carpet and linoleum 
And People instead of birds.

In the panic of the moment
Bolt forgot the small red dot.
He forgot that the way back out,
And into the kitchen shot.

Up the doorjamb to the cupboards,
As the people dashed around
Screeching "things" and causing strife,
While jars and pans came crashing down.

Like a furry flash of lightning,
He escaped to a safe-ish spot
In the corner above the cupboard;
Where they could him reach not.

For awhile the family pondered
What to do and what to think.
Meanwhile, the non-house house cat
Just glowered and glared above the sink.

Then Mom ascended to save her dishes,
And Bolt, he hissed and spat,
But he would not budge from out his lurkem;
So Dad proclaimed, "Let's move that cat."

With some poking and some prodding
From the wrong side of a broom,
Bolt departed to the other side
Of the cupboards in the room.

A basket for cosmetic purposes
Was perched upon the shelf,
And in he slithered and there he crouched
In prime position to defend himself.

A forgotten pink cat crate
That for years had been untouched,
Now came in handy at the time
Of the buzzsaw in need of such.

So with Bolt inside the basket,
And the basket inside the cage,
He was gingerly lowered down
From among the remnants of his rage.

Now, it's safe to say, I think,
That Bolt lived up to his name.
He fled into the dark,
And never was the same.

-ck

1. Tide pods: That whole challenge thing that went on a few years ago. The one that sent people to the emergency room. I kinda get it… who makes them look like that anyway?
2. Gold Fish: Yes, I know. This is just cruel. But… think about it… I know I’m not the only one to think this because. Gold Fish Crackers.
3. Fancy Soap: Did you know that the swirled stuff on top of that delectable bar of soap is even called frosting? Why would it be called that if it’s so toxic to your health and wellbeing?
4. Nondescript Berries from your Childhood: You know those berries on the plants around your house that your mom was always like DO NOT EAT THOSE YOU WILL DIE. Ya, those.
5. Alkali: Powdered sugar can’t be THAT different. Can it?
6. Ladybugs: They’re red. Red = delicious in my experience
7. Coco Powder: It’s basically chocolate. Isn’t it??? Wrong. You will cough brown dust on your surroundings and misfortuned fellow-beings.
8. String of Pearl Plants: They look like peas. So I bet they’re peas.
9. Liquid Fire Starter: It looks like that strawberry syrup for ice cream. And it’s red.
10. Toothpaste: It’s sparkly and blue and it even tastes like. Clean. Wouldn’t it be so easy to just yell “Base-on-Fire” and swallow it? But then you would have call (800)-222-1222.
11. Those Scented Crayola Markers: Especially the black one. It smells like vanilla. Like come on, Crayola. Give us a chance.
12. Crisco: Don’t be fooled. This is not frosting. I think the label should say that.
13. Cotton Balls: Cloud. Which now that I think about it. Clouds probably taste like wet dust and humidifier breath. Cotton balls are definitely the better choice.
14. Marbles: The marbles I had as a kid kinda looked like they had gold fish inside of them so maybe that explains that.
15. Bologna: #theothergraymeat

-ck

(written in a style I have found Humorous as of late…)

Christmas has the reputation of Lots of Good Fun and Joy. But I do not find it so. There is Too Much To Eat which makes one feel Sluggish and Dull. Also there is an over abundance of Jingling and Peppermint Flavored Everything. No one cares about your Peppermint eggnog and Peppermint perfume and Peppermint wrapping paper. Three stars have been awarded for Gold, Frankincense, and Myrrh. Two stars have been deducted for Overwhelming Noise and Traffic.

⭐️⭐️⭐️good gifts
-⭐️⭐️bad timing

-ck

I completely understand why the following poem left such an impression on my mind as a kid. Although, like I said, I took it quite literally to mean actual bugs. Now, after reading it again today, I think I have a new ‘irrational’ fear. Germs.

Some Little Bug Is Going to Find You
by Phil Harris

In these days of indigestion
It ofttimes comes to question
As what to eat
And what to let alone
For each microbe and bacillus
All have a different way to kill us
And in time they always claim us for their own
Now there are germs of every kind
In every food that you can find
Either in the market or upon the bill of fare
And drinking water is just as risky
As that so-called deadly whiskey
And it's ofttimes a bad mistake to breathe the air.

Some little bug is gonna find you someday
Some little bug will creep behind you someday
And then he's gonna send for all of his bug friends
And all your earthly troubles end
Some little bug is gonna find you someday.

Now take a slice of nice fried onion
And then you're fit for Doctor Munion
And then apple dumplin's
They gonna kill you faster than a train
Now chew a cheesy midnight rabbit
And a grave you'll soon inhabitant
Ooh, to eat at all is such a foolish game.

Now eatin' huckleberry pie
That's a pleasing way to die
While sauerkraut brings on softly [on] the brain
And when you eat those banana fritters
Every undertaker tethers
The casket makers
They nearly go insane.

Some little bug is gonna find you someday
Yeah, that little bug he will creep behind you someday
And then with a nervous little quiver
He'll give you cirrhosis of the liver
That little bug he's gonna find you someday.

I like when cold storage vaults I visit
I can only say, “What is it
That makes poor mortals fill their systems with such stuff?”
Sure for breakfast prunes are dandy
That is if you got a stomach pump handy
And, uh, your doctor can be found quite soon enough.

Now you eat a plate of fine pig's knuckles
And then the headstone cutter chuckles
And he also makes a note upon his cuff
And fried liver's nice, but mind you
Friends will soon ride slow behind you
While you relatives start scrappin' bout your stuff.

Some little bug is gonna find you someday
Yeah, that little bug is gonna creep up behind you someday.

Now eat that sauce
They call it chili
And on your chest, they'll place a lily.

 Some little bug is gonna find you someday.

Now if you'll excuse me I'm gonna run down and get some deep-fried fish and chips. 
See ya.

(No, this has absolutely nothing to do with the car I drive.)

Don’t we all have at least one completely irrational fear from our childhood which has somehow molded our existence with forces beyond the power of sanity and reason into what it is today? I’d venture to suggest that those of you who lay claim to being totally rational in all of your fears are either lying, aliens from another planet, or scared of what other people might think of you (Rational fear. People and what they think are scary.). However, if you choose to proclaim your lack of fright to mankind, I’ll try to refrain from commenting.

My irrational fear, as most of you unfortunately already have knowledge of, is bugs. Like all of them. Spiders, crickets, centipedes, spiders, anything that flies (excluding flutterbys, because, well, that would just be silly), spiders, and everything else with more than the normal amount of legs. But here’s the deal: I have reasons. Rational ones.

It all started with a faint memory I have of my sister standing on the stage of the Pea Green Community Building in Delta chanting “…some little bug’s gonna get you someday…”. To this single phrase, I accredit all of the uncontrolled screeching and dancing around while batting wildly at the air that took place at random intervals throughout the rest of my formative years. Later I learned this phrase is part of a poem with an obscure meaning that has nothing to do with actual creepy crawly bugs, but at the tender age of three the meaning was glaringly black and white to my small mind. My older sister, which I thought the world of, was talking about spiders, of course. What else could she be saying? And she said one of them was going to ‘get’ me someday. I believed her. Wholeheartedly.

Even though I was absolutely terrified of all bugs from that point on, I somehow developed an unmatched fascination for them at the same time. What a toxic combination that was! Every instance in which a bug would show up in my life, I was faced with a dilemma. My legs wanted to charge off in the general direction of safety but the rest of me wanted to stay to find out what kind of unholy creation that was anyway, resulting in a fair amount of what I can only term as ‘running around’. I even recall having an entire collection of jars in odd array sitting on the windowsill in the living room for the sole purpose of keeping my creepy little enemies as pets. Don’t ask me why. I don’t know. Those horrid six- and eight-legged creatures became the theme of my nightmares for years, even up to this day when the prisons on the windowsill have long since disappeared.

However, to my dismay the bugs have not disappeared with them. Somehow they still seem to show up in every available dark corner and crevice in my life, real and imaginary. Do they view me as a friend or do they have malicious intentions toward my life? Just a question I ask myself daily. An ‘irrational’ fear I address daily.

-ck

P.S. At this moment, I happen to have a spider abiding in the corner of my shower. I like to count it as a sign of maturity in myself that I have let him live primarily in peace for several months now, although I don’t really appreciate it when he creeps out of his corner. The unspoken rule between us: I leave him alone as long as he leaves me alone.

8950 W Rd 270
Scott City, KS 67871

Dear friends, readers, and general public,

Yes, I know that by this time you have in all probability read enough Christmas letters to last you well into the coming year and, believe me, so have I. But to close a year without writing a Christmas letter of my own- I simply could not seem to bring myself to do. Therefore, I present to you the somewhat random results of my somewhat scattered mind in the form of ‘another thing to read’ in your already hectic holiday season.

April 24th: I clocked out of Bethel Home one last time, gave a few hugs, took off my mask, and ,yes, shed a few tears. As the sliding double doors squeaked shut behind me, another chapter in life closed too. But I’d like to think that old Bethel Home Kitchen will never forget all the hilarious life-changing events that took place in a short year and a half… I know I never will. Or can for that matter.

May 1st: Deridder, Louisiana. Shala, one of those friends in my life that I owe to Bethel Home, is the beautiful bride. She is happy. Josh is happy. And we are happy too. ‘Ecstatic’ might be more fitting… considering the circumstances.

May 9th: Dad and I are on our way to backpack into Grand Canyon for a few nights. We’ve been looking forward to this since… well, forever, so you can only imagine the energy level in the pickup on the trip down there. One night in a hotel on the South Rim. Hiked down the South Kiabab Trail the next day. (As it turns out, my stride is not the same as a mule’s stride for which the trail is built resulting in what I like to call ‘sewing machine knees’ progressing rapidly into severe leg cramps from the relentless downhill trek. If you know, you know…) A night at the Phantom Ranch Campground on the canyon floor. Wind. Hiked to Ribbon Falls on the North Rim and back and then another night at Phantom Ranch. More wind. Hiked out on the Bright Angel Trail on May 12th. Tired. In desperate need of a shower. Patrick MacManus would call this a “fine and pleasant misery” and he’s right. It is. Words can’t describe the timeless beauty of Grand Canyon. My advice to you? If you get the chance, take it! And, even better, hike down below the rim.

May 22nd: My nephew is six today! Tate, it doesn’t seem so long ago that you believed that the echo in the hallway was a real person yelling back at you from behind the dryer. And singing “All God’s Critters” and “Waltzing Matilda” with me just to annoy Grammy. Now you’re all grown up and in school. Keep singing at the top of your lungs. But not just to annoy Grammy…

June 16th: Plot twist. A message from Scott City, asking if I want a job teaching four first and second graders for the coming year. Well, I thought “No” in the morning. By evening, it was a “Probably”. And now here I am. Teaching in Scott City… loving it.

And also on June 16th: The other little nephew of mine, Tucker Dean, had his first birthday! All I can say is “blue frosting everywhere”. Can’t wait until Tate and I can tell you about ‘Paraphernalia’ (the name the Echo in the Hallway).

July 8th: Infamous whirlwind two weeks begins. Heading to Montezuma for what seems like the hundredth time in the last few months. The next day (which, FYI people at Scott City who insist on giving me so much hash on this particular subject, is the reason for why I always taking my keys out of my car when it’s parked. If you want details, you could just ask Homeland. Actually… please don’t, on second thought…), I and the Homeland youth leave for Walker, Missouri for JJ and Jenny’s wedding. It’s the usual scurry-here-scurry-there wedding weekend. And we enjoy it because we are youth who like scurrying.

July 11th. Tara and I journey to Greensburg, Kansas. Girls’ Preparatory Class. We both overthink everything in the hour and a half it takes to drive to the church resulting in ‘back-out syndrome’, chronically shaking knees, and ‘forgetting-my-own-name disease’. Somehow we made it through introductions. I don’t remember much except that I forgot to say I had a sister and two nephews and ended my little speech very lamely with “so ya…”. Everybody laughed and I was embarrassed. Already. On the first evening.

July 17th: Girls’ Class comes to a close. We’ve learned a lot of valuable things in this week that we’ll hopefully carry with us through the rest of our lives. Hershey’s Chocolate taught us that “hands are meant to be held” against the well-meaning admonitions of our instructor. Mentos gave us a bond that only eating many, many Mentos as quickly as you can will give you. But we learned the real stuff from Rod and Lisa, our instructors. Abby, Anne, Ashley, Carmen, Jolynn, Kariann, Laura, Luann, Sammi, Sonia, Tara, Tasya, Trisha, Tyanne. I miss you all. Good luck on whichever path life leads you down. And don’t forget… we’ll meet at the snack bar!

July 18th: Lori and I leave on the early flight out of Garden City, Kansas bound for Filer, Idaho Teachers’ Prep Class. By this time, my mind is on data overload and I don’t end up catching most of what goes on. Though that might not be saying much, come to think of it, as I have a hard enough time catching everything on a ‘normal’ day. Whatever that is. I don’t know. I wrote a lot of notes. Then I went home and went into hybernation.

August 14th: Scott City, here I come. What I’ve been waiting for is finally here. And, guess what? I’m scared silly. Who are all these people I talk to on the phone? What is the youth group like? What in the world am I getting myself into? Driving lends to overthinking again. Several months later, I am no longer quite as scared. You all treat me great…

August 22nd: School starts today! Jesse, Jaxon, Olivia, Madison, and Savanna, do you have any idea how terrified I am? It’s probably a good thing you don’t.

October 9th: John and Tara’s wedding! It’s come almost too soon for us bridesmaids. But we’ve done are best to accept it because… how could we not?? They look so happy. Now we get to go to their cute little house in Montezuma for supper and gossip sessions. Just like old times… in a new time.

November 13th: Conference Week… twelve of us youth pile into a fifteen-passenger van and head for Tupelo, Mississippi. There are mixed emotions on board. Some are dubious. Some are nervous. Some are on a caffeine high.

November 15th: I walk into the Candence Bank Arena expecting… I have no idea what I am expecting. Over the next three days I run into nearly everybody I’ve ever known in my entire life. A few people I run into so many times it is almost awkward. Like “oh, there you are again…”. Beeline to nowhere in particular. Fade into the crowd. Get out of there. Disappear.

November 18th: Into the van again. It’s a slightly different group on the return trip. Some are tired. Some are quiet. Some are still on a caffeine high. Somehow we must have made it home. I don’t remember much except we ran over an ice chest. On the interstate. In a fifteen-passenger van. And Kassie beat Reese in the Alphabet Game without cheating.

December 16th: The Christmas Program that we’ve practiced for the last three weeks is tonight. I might be more nervous than my students at this point. The last practice didn’t go so good… what if the flame thrower doesn’t work when I need to light those candles on the last song?! What if I forget the sign language to “Silent Night”?! Valid concerns. But they were to no avail. The children pulled off an awesome Christmas Program. My students would groan, but I have to say it; “hard work pays off, y’all”…

December 18th: Home. It’s a great place to be. Correction: it’s the best place to be.

If there is one silly little feel-good quote out there that is true, I think it’s the one about people, not just places, feeling like home too. I hope everyone of you reading this has the blessing of being “home for Christmas” this year. So with that being said…

For those of you wondering how my life as a teacher is going so far- in the most teacher-ish style that entered my mind…

A– Asking questions. Answering questions. Questions of all sizes, colors and shapes. Apparently that’s what school is all about.

B- Beautiful penmanship pages. #the way to a teacher’s heart

C- Corrections. Not of general enjoyment.

D- Designated Decoy. That’s Chandler and his self-chosen title for whenever we play Dare Base. We love it.

E- Extreme excitement at such a small thing as going to the pop machine in Pence for Art. #this is why I teach

F- “Fill up my Cup”… number thirty three. We sing it nearly as much as is physically and vocally possible.

G- Green beans. Jesse and Jaxon always have plenty to say on that subject. “Eeeewww!! they’re disgusting!!”

H- Hamburgers… “now those are the best”. -also Jesse and Jaxon

I- “Interrogative????” That’s how we say it to remember that an interrogative sentence asks a question.

J- Jumping jacks. Apparently my class can do several thousand without even breaking a sweat (if they make up numbers as they go along!)

K- “Kids these days!!” we teachers exclaim as we charge past each other in the hallway on our way to our own little energetic classrooms.

L- Lunch, of course! #main topic of discussion

N- Never ending thought pattern lately: Sleep is for the weak. Just kidding. Don’t do that, Ciara. Actually do. You’ll sleep when you’re dead. Aaahhhh!!

M- Miss Koehn, Miss Ashley, Mr. Goosen, myself and now Miss Lauren. We make a great team “despite the circumstances”.

O- Oreos!!! #favorite desert/ topic of conversation

P- Puns and how to use them. Something I wish I would have known in first or second grade. Or do I…?!

Q- “Quietly“… the adverb for everything.

R- Riding in the Tweedle Beetle. (All five of my students “fit” in the back seat!!)

S- Singing “The Donut Song” every day before we go home… I’m definitely not singing a solo anymore!

T- The disturbing reality that most of the school children have youth-age siblings when you regularly hear words like “yeeeeet”, “boi”, and “just send it” floating around the school…

U- Upcoming Poem Fest. We memorized a poem I learned in lower grades. “Come, little leaves, said the wind one day…”

V- Volcanos. A favorite impromptu science class in the middle of American History.

W- Walks on Tuesday mornings for devotions. Yep. Enough said.

X- “X will come in handy if your name is Knixxy Knox. Or in spelling ax and extra fox.” A lesson from Dr. Suess when first grade couldn’t imagine why they would ever need to know how to write the letter x.

Y- Yelling “CHANGING ITS” at the top of my lungs. It suddenly struck me that my school days aren’t actually as far back in history as I had believed…

Z- Z… “my favorite cursive letter…” -2nd grade

-ck

Written for those brave individuals choosing to procede after reading my previous article titled “The Art of Awkwardness”.

Imagine yourself as an actor. Stage lights dance and ripple in a fascinating medley. The audience goes wild. It’s a standing ovation. And you- you stand boldly in the spotlight. The very center of attention. If you paused a moment to think (which, you won’t because thinking leads to thoughtful behavior and that’s an absolute NO in the Art) you would feel utterly unworthy of applause or accolades of any sort. The actual success of your performance had little to nothing to do with you, really. You just got the timing right.

That’s what it’s all about in the end. Getting the timing right. Talk to any professional in the Art and they will be sure to tell you (in great and lengthy detail) just how important timing is in transforming some old rag of a moment into never-to-be-forgotten, excruciatingly awkward seconds of life.

For all young learners in the Art of awkwardness, I have collected a few tips and tricks of the trade over the recent years and feel to share them kindly with you. Listen carefully.

Choosing a stage: The stage. The extreme core of the Art. Without IT you would be nearly as lost as the kid next door. The overwhelming stress involved with choosing, not just a common old stage but the right fit for you causes most beginners to pull great handfuls of hair out and stomp back behind the curtains in a mighty huff. Luckily, you’re far more committed to the Art than that by this scene in the show. So to save you some stagefright; here are some good solid jumping off points (yes, they’re tested and proven) for your perfected performance:

• Most Sunday dinner tables
• All large church assemblies and gatherings
• Grocery stores; preferably crowded aisles or the checkout line
• Fancy restaurants housing waiters and waitresses in black ties
• Silent ball games

Choosing an audience: People. You cannot possibly expect to have a memorable awkward moment without quite a number of them present at the event. But, furthermore, just like the stage, it’s not just any people. Ask yourself what kind of people you want spectating as “it all goes down”? The type of audience you choose fully depends upon the nature of reactions you are aiming for. Here is a hand-picked list of several different categories of onlookers and bystanders and the typical responses they most often bring to the table:

• Innocent Peasants provide unbiased reactions (these are usually pretty hard to beat in my opinion).
• Pets such as aged Dogs and Cats provide startling reactions.
• Youth Girls provide dramatic reactions and the scream factor which is somewhat fulfilling.
• Youth at Ball Games provide either hilarious reactions or the glare factor.
• Housewives provide scandalized reactions plus the no-air factor.
• Other Professionals in the Art provide whooping, applauding, snorting and further such encouragements.

The all-important timing: As previously mentioned, timing is crucial to every soul who would dare to be great. It’s the nearly imperceptible line between true artistry and total failure. As difficult as it may appear as you first set foot on stage, it becomes a natural habit as you grow in experience and understanding. I have listed a few of the most popular of times for pulling off awkward moments for your personal benefit below:

• During the “Seven-Minute-Lull” in casual conversation
• In the moments directly before or after taking a sip of scorching hot coffee
• Anytime (and I mean anytime) while serving at a wedding
• Silent ball games

Nights of lying wide awake; sleep having fled the scene. Stomach butterflies at every social function. Never a moment without a hovering sense of impending disaster. Never a shot not taken.

You’ll never have to revert to bragging of dull moments. Ever. I promise.

-ck

Have you ever noticed the fact that there is a particular category of people who seem not only to look for opportunity but actually enjoy proclaiming their social inability and awkwardness to the world? This dying breed appears nearly inhuman in their blatant disregard for self preservation and Darwin’s “survival of the fittest” concept. They disdain the inborn human tendency to hide behind the common facade of gracefulness even at the risk of losing credibility in the eyes of their peers who “have it together”. Sheds of tattered self-esteem hang around them in insignificant rags. No amount of embarrassment or personal discomfort is spared; anything and everything is instantly risked at the slightest possibility of “a good story”.

“Good stories” told by a professional in the art of awkwardness are much akin to “big fish stories” recounted by the old fisherman slouched his rickety rocking chair on the front porch of the local drugstore. The more eyes and ears in the immediate vicinity, the more wild the story becomes until at last it verges into absurdity. Lines between myth and reality become more blurred with every insane detail added to the plot. But people, as a rule, take interest in other people’s discomfort and the crowd to which to the story is told expands rapidly. The story itself spreads like wildfire in the wind.

But please don’t be fooled. There is a distinct difference between a rookie and a seasoned professional in the art of awkwardness. To take a simple faux pa and turn it into an absolute disaster takes more than just a mere human being prone to troubles and placed in unfortunate circumstances. It takes continuous effort, unmatched dedication, and constant discipline. Not only must you single-handedly escalate an innocent situation into a fiasco which all involved will spend decades trying to erase from their memories, but you must do so while appearing as surprised and mortified as everyone else. However, this is only a sliver of the mindset it takes to pull off the art of awkwardness without a catch. Far too many people these days destroy their socially awkward image by making obvious efforts in that direction. True awkwardness is painstakingly devised under the surface but is executed to occur (or at least to appear to occur) as a “freak accident” to bystanders and onlookers.

Now, I hear you ask, “How can I possibly develop such an elusive talent as the art of awkwardness?” Patiently, patiently. As the old adage goes, all good things worth having take time; and for reference sake, I shall add that wholely worthless, undesirable things take even more time. But take courage, fellow soldier. Someday you will stand on your mountaintop of unduly earned success and laugh down upon all those still struggling to recover from the boulders you dislodged while climbing. Persevere in your chosen profession… at your own risk.

-ck

For those fortunate workers of the Bethel Home Kitchen, epic disasters are just a part of life. Rarely does a shift pass without something totally bizzare and seemingly impossible befalling the ill-fated victim. Murphy is a known and frequent visitor in the kitchen and the Kitchen Girls have learned to speak of him and his law only in polite whispers. They have no doubts of his existence. On the rare occasions that one would escape a single shift unscathed, mishaps are sure to be lurking around ever corner when the next shift arrives.

Now. For those aspiring to cook in the Bethel Home Kitchen, you will find that even with Murphy present, there are certain elements of disaster that remain in your control. With knowledge of these you can avoid or at least delay what is sure to be coming your way.

Time is the first element to be discussed. Time has a tricky way of speeding up and slowing down most inconveniently. Or mischievously appearing disguised as one or the other. Prepare for either of these to haunt your dreams for the first several weeks as a certified Kitchen Girl. For you as the cook, time does not exist. This proves to be somewhat of a conundrum as everything you attempt is measured in seconds, minutes, and hours. Time. A few of the experienced kitchen workers seem to have mastered this equation quite well though. The honored title, Getting-The-Most-Done-In-The-Least-Time, goes to our wonderful Boss Lady, Sharee. However, Heidi could also provide some good insights on time management as she can complete the job at hand in record time while similtaneously causing chaos for rest of the Kitchen Girls. How does she do it? An unsolved Kitchen mystery.

Gravity is the next element to be considered. Common knowledge tells everyone that it is undoubtedly present in our small world. But for you as the cook, your inner awareness of the gravitational forces is the thin line between success and complete failure. It comes into play in nearly every aspect of cooking. Stirring gravy. Mashing potatoes. Even measuring out the correct portion of peas becomes significantly more difficult when you’re the cook. Just ask Kayann. Gravity also influences aspects that have nothing to do with actual cooking. You cannot possibly expect to step on a grape and continue on your sojourn into the pantry unharmed. (Believe it or not, grapes seem to be the downfall of many Kitchen Girls. Betz and Lanae would be happy to explain.) The Big Mixer is undulely affected by gravity. Lena and Andrea have thoroughly proven this theory to be accurate. Is the corner where IT resides still faintly pink from the infamous red velvet cake incident? Are there still random pinto beans scattered throughout the kitchen?

Speed is another element that should be taken into consideration when cooking. In moderation speed is good and in fact, quite necessary. As in the instance of rushing in and out of the refrigerator before the door swings shut. You can be sure the state of your nervous system will not improve in tiny enclosed spaces. However, large amounts of speed become an issue in the circumstance of, say, mashing potatoes. Or of driving the cart carrying all the ready-to-bake pizzas. Or of rushing from the freshly mopped kitchen floor onto the linoleum floor of the pantry. Jolie is our seasoned expert on the speed to disaster ratio.

Dealing with the aftermath of disasters is a whole different situation. Morgan will tell you that yelling at the coffee maker does nothing to stop it from running over. The Honored Big Mixer has never been known to listen to any advice either. Muttered, screeched, or otherwise. No amount of shrieking will keep the Cool Whip containers from falling on your head. Or the freezer from being cold. Or Tara from turning the fridge light off on you.

But, like I said, for the Kitchen Girls, disasters are merely a fraction of what is entailed by working at Bethel Home. Catastrophes would be missed in their absence, whether we admit it or not. Misfortunes that have befallen us in the past become only hilarious memories as the pain and/or embarrassment of the occasion fade away. Bruises heal afterall. Beet juice stains do lighten eventually. Broken bowls are forgotten in the cardboard box at the bottom of the closet. And the Kitchen Girls continue on their merry way, no worse for the wear.

-ck

Disclaimer: I must apologize for this being somewhat of an exclusive topic. To fully appreciate and understand this kitchen insight, message Sharee at (620) 846-0137 to apply for the Bethel Home kitchen.

Whoever applied the “unintelligent” stereotype to chickens never met Ginger. She was given her name on a mere whim but looking back, no other name would have fit her half as well. Of course, there is the possibility that the name came first and the attitude simply followed. But who’s to judge?

Ginger’s baby life was somewhat chaotic as she was raised in a one-size-fits-all environment with several hundred others of her kind. It must have been traumatizing for her to have been lumped together with the rest of the common flock of birds; eating from the same table, having the same bedtime, etc.. She always knew she deserved better but as the saying goes, people (or in this case, chickens) throw rocks at things that shine. Ginger was the prime henpecked example.

After living in a cardboard box with a few comparatively dull chicks for several months, a little girl happened along and took her under her wing. She was assigned the name “Ginger” because she was brown and went to live in a tiny house with five cantankerous housewife hens. For the most part they regarded little Ginger with disgust and she spent most if her time residing on top of the henhouse door. Luckily there was someone in this cold world who loved her and catered to her even in such an out-of-reach place because, well, she was obviously royalty. She had her own personal cafe and multiple perches that were inaccessible by her slightly overweight oppressors; not to mention that she nearly always got the first choice from the scrap bucket. She may have possibly even had her own blanket.

Ginger obtained a rather comical appearance as she grew that set her apart from all others of her species. She had ear muffs. Or where they sideburns?

Ginger developed appalling table manners. It became her habit to bolt down anything resembling food as soon as it was offered to her. Actually most of the random things she consumed in her lifetime probably didn’t even resemble food and weren’t being offered at all. On a particular unpleasant day, she even inhaled a vast portion of hailstones before staring vacantly off into the distance. Do chickens suffer from brain freeze? That summer, crickets were largely available in the area and they became her all time favorite in the snack department. Other chickens of mere average speed only got crumbs when Ginger was around.

Eventually four of the grouchy old hens went were all good chickens go and Ginger’s life became decidedly more pleasant. As it turned out, her and her fellow chicken, Starlight, were birds of a feather. Whether they just had the natural tendency for getting into scrapes or they learned bad tricks from one another or a healthy combination of both, that unlikely pair was truly something to behold. The predicaments they got themselves in to seemed uncannily well-planned. Who says chickens don’t have the mindful capacity to scheme and plot the demise of the human race? I am thoroughly convinced they do.

The next summer brought more adjustments for Ginger. Eight rather flighty, insecure chickens joined the flock. This included the rooster, Storm King. He had a slightly know-it-all attitude as most roosters do and this did not sit well with Her Majesty. By this time, our little Ginger was confident in her ability as well as her obvious privilege to rule the roost. After a few feathers flew Storm King maintained a polite distance from Ginger and the others followed his lead. Ginger reigned supreme in the henhouse.

Maybe she was spoiled rotten. Maybe she was trying to compensate for her life as a chick. Or maybe she was just living up to her name.

-ck