For Good Measure

I do not understand why the lunch lady would ask if we wanted a particular food item, say like green beans on our tray as we made our way down the line. Green beans are gross. My reply in those early informative years of K-5 had always been a solid no with an added in head shake for good measure. Lunch lady added in a large scoop of overcooked, pale green, and soggy beans. For good measure.

My tray was passed to the next lunch lady who pointed to the tray of various fruit cups. I use various loosely. Perhaps the fifty or so kids in the front of the line had a choice of applesauce, raisins, or mixed fruit cocktail, oh that was my favorite. I loved the bright red cherries. My choice was between plums or prunes; they both looked the same to a seven-year-old.

If we ate everything on our tray and could prove it, we could come back for a peanut butter and butter sandwich if we were still hungry. What child is not hungry? I would cleverly hide my green beans in my empty milk carton. Sometimes it worked and others not so much. There were times where I boldly walked my tray up to the bin with my napkin strategically placed over the beans and dump everything in. I would walk up to the kitchen window and produce my empty tray to the lunch lady sitting on her stool. I could always fool the nice lady, but the mean one always told me no.

“I saw what you just did.”

“But I hate green beans.”

“Did you eat them?”

“No.”

“Then you get no sandwich.”

My favorite grandma, Grandma Betty, worked at another school cafeteria in the same district. If our kitchen was short staffed there were times she would come over and help at my school cafeteria.

It did not matter if I was the first in line, which almost never happened or the last in line, which is more realistic, she always treated me right.

She would go through the formalities, “Do you want green beans, honey?”

There was no need to answer. She would carefully place the token one or two beans on my tray for good measure and pass it on to the next lady. She would follow suit and point to the fruit tray full of plums.

“Oh, I have something for you honey.” My grandma would say as she pulled out of her apron pocket an apple or banana from home.

“Thanks, grandma.”

“I love you, sweetie.”

“I love you too.”

My two token green beans would accidently fall on the floor as I lifted my fork to my mouth. After the rest of my lunch had been finished, I would arrogantly walk up to the sandwich window and display a tray so clean one could eat from it. In a ginger-sweet voice I would ask for a peanut butter sandwich. If my grandma was sitting in the stool, she would hand me two.

“For good measure.” She would say.