I was making an almond butter and banana sandwich today, when an oddly detailed and specific memory popped into my head.
I was in line in my elementary school cafeteria. One of the delicacies on the menu of that revered palace of haute cuisine that day was a sandwich of sorts. Two half-slices of bright white spongy bread stuck together by a film of yellow margarine. Yum. Suddenly, a few folks ahead of me in line, there was a commotion. Someone’s sandwich had what appeared, at first glance, to be a thin layer of peanut butter between the bread slices. We were all immediately envious, even though I doubt any of us were that enamored by a plain peanut butter on Wonder-like bread. Still, it appeared different and special.
The lucky recipient then pried apart the layers of bread and realized that the culinary artists in the kitchen had simply taken the heel slice of the bread and turned it over to hide the crust, which presumably would have been rejected by the students. Yuck. Crust. Positively spoiling the tasteless sponginess of the bread and the greasy savor of the oleomargarine.
This memory crops up every few years, and I’ve often wondered why it persists, and so vividly. Of course, I made my share of PB&J when raising my sons — though they never, ever asked for Wonder Bread or Jiff. I think it was the realization that the staff was deliberately being both condescending and deceitful… with our food! They knew the crusty end piece wouldn’t be popular (I would have preferred it), so they tried clumsily to hide it. I was probably seven years old, but I knew enough to be offended and to realize the implication: that the school would willingly lie to us to save the cost of a slice of bread, and they thought us too stupid to see through the deception.
No education institution since (with the possible exception of Caltech) has done anything to dispel the notion that they hold the student body in contempt and will exploit them for minimal gain.
—2p