How to Make a Peanut Butter & Jelly Sandwich: A Lesson in Algorithms for Eight Year Olds

When I was in elementary school (a million years ago with the dinosaurs) our district had one dedicated, all-day, immersive class for academically gifted children in grades 3-6. You had to test to get in, and if you did, you spent four years with the same kids going through a designated set of teachers. At the time, it felt like a Big Deal to be included in this program, and I was informed later that my personal inclusion was a slightly bigger deal than I thought. Lemme ‘splain.

Mrs. Krahenbuhl was the third grade G.A.T.E. (Gifted and Talented Education) teacher. Since the program was based at my elementary school, she had been aware of my existence from the time I started kindergarten. Now, according to my mother, I aced every part of the G.A.T.E. test with the exception of the mathematics section--no surprise there, it had always been my stumbling block. I gather I missed the mark on that section by a fairly slim margin, but the district rule was “90% or higher, period.” While I can’t vouch for the accuracy of this conversation because I got the abridged version from my mother several years down the line, it seems that when Mrs. Krahenbuhl got wind of my plight she said something akin to, “I want that child in my class,” and then waved her magic teacher wand and made it so.

I’m bringing this up this week because last Saturday I went to Mrs. Krahenbuhl’s memorial service.

On September 22nd of this year, Mrs. Krahenbuhl made her move to the Big Teacher’s Lounge in the Sky. She taught a total of fifty-five years, forty-five of which were in my school district, and the last seven post-retirement as a substitute teacher. There were kids in my class whose parents had had her as a teacher. She was the reason our school district had a G.A.T.E. program to begin with, and she was a proponent for other specialized education programs throughout the district.

The woman was an institution. (Though I expect she’d balk at the label.)

The service itself was exactly what you’d expect--memories shared by family and friends, a bit of praying, a few hymns. Since the word about the service went out nearly a month in advance, I had reached out to some of my classmates about going, and when the time came there were five of us who went. (There was a smattering of representation from classes before and behind us, but we of Mrs. K’s class of ‘94-’95 were the largest sample, so we declared it a win and are still awaiting our prize, but never mind.) We stayed long enough at the reception to say hello to several former teachers and take a few photos, and then four of us (the fifth had come with her family) politely excused ourselves and retired to the Britannia Arms up the road a bit to have some food and reminisce.

We talked about the Thanksgiving Feast, making little quilts, and then had to break it to one of our group that his mental calendar was off and he was remembering stuff we did in fourth grade as stuff we did in third grade which sent his whole world topsy-turvy. We talked about science fair projects. We talked about the 1,000 paper cranes we made as a class as an acknowledgement of the victims of the Oklahoma City Bombing (April 19, 1995) and how we were on the news as a school singing ‘This Land is Your Land’ by Woody Guthrie with Mr. Hentschke, the fourth grade G.A.T.E. teacher, playing guitar, our third grade class sitting in the front row with our paper cranes all strung together.

I think the memory we were the most excited about, though, was the “How to Make a Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich” lesson. It sounds simple enough, doesn’t it? “Write down the steps for making a PB&J.” Well, guess what? Those were the most deceptive instructions we were ever given as a class.

“Put the peanut butter on the bread.”

“Okay,” said Mrs. K, plunking the jar of peanut butter on top of the still-bagged bread loaf.

“No! Take the bread out first.”

“How do I do that?”

“Open the bag!”

“Like this?” Mrs. K asked, starting to tear the plastic bag.

“No! Take off the twist-tie and take the bread out the end.”

“Like this?” She dumped the whole loaf out onto the table.

“You only need a piece of bread!”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Yes! Now put the peanut butter on the piece of bread.”

She put the jar of peanut butter on the piece of bread.

“Aaaaargh! NO!”

I think you can imagine the rest. (To be completely honest, I think Mrs. K took a certain perverse pleasure in winding us all up like that, but can you really blame her?)

How many people do you know who can say they learned about algorithms in the third grade? I bet the answer is, “Very few.” It’s an advanced concept, but it was presented in a simple way, and to this day I know how important it is to be specific in your directions because otherwise you end up with smashed bread and grape jelly all over your hands.

So, Mrs. Krahenbuhl, I hope you’re making detailed PB&Js for the hosts of angels up there in the Celestial Staff Room. Your legacy lives on in the hearts and minds of hundreds of students, and I know that I, for one, can’t see a sandwich without thinking about algorithms.

Sugar, spice, everything nice, and CHEMICAL X!

Some of you may remember back in July when I lost Big Dutch, my male Hooded rat. He had health complications (as did all of his sisters who left before him) and I had to let him go. Obviously, that was a big fat bummer, and since I had such troubles with all my ratty babies I wasn’t sure if I could handle any more short lives and dramatic deaths.

And then, last week, I was lonely as fuck. (Read about it here!)

Now, I have always wanted a dog. Always as in ‘since I can remember’. I love hanging out with other people’s dogs and I’ve been called upon to dog-sit a great deal in my adult life, but a short foray into fosterhood proved conclusively that I was really and truly allergic to dander. Cue much pouting. Between a vastly reduced list of breeds due to the allergy and the fact that I’m gone for work close to ten hours a day (I commute), dog ownership is just not a possibility at the moment. I’m still bummed out about it, but it is what it is, and when I finally do get to have a dog (Greyhounds don’t have an undercoat and there’s a local rescue!) I want to be able to be home with it as much as possible. With all of this in mind, while also desperately wanting something to snuggle, the solution was obvious: It was time for another round of ratties.

So off I pottered to North Star Rescue, which is where I adopted Penny and Big Dutch, and I spent an hour or so with Jenn, the director, and some sweet little girls, one of whom I had met in July when I took what was left of Big Dutch’s kibble and cage fluff over as a donation. I had intended to adopt a pair--rats have to have a buddy--because I found it difficult when I had three to bond with all of them equally. Of course, the Universe (in the form of Jenn, the Empress of Rat Adoption Enablement) had other ideas.

Having discovered she was (astonishingly) still available, I knew I would be taking home the Double Rex girl I had met in July. Okay, so that was one decision made, now, who to take with her?

As soon as Jenn opened the cage, a little pink-eyed Marten came right over to say hi. Now, I’m not terribly keen on the whole red eye thing, it kinda creeps me out. I know it’s not fair or rational, but there it is. So I handled her for a minute and then moved on, loving on a few other little critters, but the Marten kept coming back. She really wanted to be close to me, and besides, she was giving me kisses, and if you’ve never experienced ratty kisses you are missing out because they are the best. “All right, Marten girl, you’re selling yourself really well. You get to be my second.”

“Hang on, I have a little Masked girl in there somewhere,” Jenn said.

Oh no. I suddenly got the feeling that my dream of a pair was going to be just that. And when Jenn finally found her, that little Masked girl just made me melt. She’s a runty little thing. It turns out that she was taken away from her mama too early. She’s nervous, but super sweet. And also super speedy, but I’m pretty sure that will subside once she gets used to me.

So I ended up with a trio. They’re strikingly different in coats and markings and colors, and I expect as they grow they’ll be just as different in their personalities, but for now they’re snuggly as can be and just too cute for words!

“Okay, so, three rats. Three girl rats. What do you name three girl rats?”

“Well, let’s see...I could name them after the Bronte sisters?” So I looked up the name of the third Bronte sister which I always forget and said, “Charlotte, Emily, and Anne? Mmm, no, I don’t think so. Next!”

I ended up asking Google to look up some famous female trios for me, and the first result was too perfect--and when things are too perfect, I try to find alternatives, because perfect is, well, perfect, and that’s kind of scary. I considered Kelly, Sabrina, and Jill (Charlie’s Angels,) but since I’m not a devotee of the program I scrapped that idea. It’s almost Halloween, so the thought of naming them Sarah, Mary, and Winnifred after the Sanderson Sisters in Hocus Pocus did cross my mind, but I scrapped that, too. Monica, Rachel, and Phoebe? Nah, didn’t watch Friends either. I started gender-bending other well-known threesomes, like Harriet, Veronica, and Hermione, but that got tedious really quickly. And besides, the first perfect set of names had grown on me by the time I exhausted the other possibilities, so:

Please say “Hello!” (in order) to Blossom, Bubbles, and Buttercup.

This is my island.

I was going to go down a completely different rabbit hole this week, but in the process of searching for a certain quote (which I still haven’t found) from the BBC’s 1990-94 comedy series Waiting for God, I came across this, and it sent my brainbox in a different direction entirely.

“I used to come down [to Brighton] during the war. I used the watch the air battles, the dogfights, out there. Our boys and their boys weaving about on a lovely summer’s day, putting on such a show. If one of the Hun went down, the whole beach would cheer. If one of our boys was hit, even the wind would stop blowing. Time froze until the lad either parachuted to safety and your heart would leap, or he plunged into the sea and you all died with him. Nineteen or twenty years of some dear mother’s adoration, loving care, just switched off. Doused. It’s why I never had children. Couldn’t face losing them. It’s why I never had much at all.”

It’s from one of the program’s quiet moments, one of the infinitesimal spaces where they would slip into the dialogue something so poignant and sharp that you’d forget for a minute that you’d come for the laughs--at least, until one of the main characters whacked a pigeon with her cane or purposefully confused his drug-addled daughter-in-law. It’s a split-second of total honesty. A bare-faced ‘come to Jesus’. It makes you think. Well, it did me, anyway.

I’ve heard it said that the happier you are, the less you need. Those inspirational Instagram doohickies are always touting simple pleasures. ‘You can’t take it with you.” Experiences and relationships are more valuable than things. There’s certainly something to be said for this vein of life philosophy--especially if, like me, you deplore clutter.

But there’s something beyond that for me.

I know I’ve mentioned before that I’m ‘not very good at people’, and there’s a reason for that. A life of externally-enforced--which very quickly also became self-enforced--emotional repression has rendered me wary. I keep the world at arm’s length on purpose, because anything closer than that is dangerous. Experience has taught me that there is always another shoe to drop; there’s always a way for someone to disappoint or betray you. It’s an unending dogfight, but it doesn’t seem to matter who gets shot down. If it’s me, it’s because whatever situation I’ve ended up in is somehow my fault. If it’s someone else, I’m not cheering as they plummet towards the sea--I’m watching, wounded, because they’ve proved themselves to be an unsafe connection. No one wins.

It always makes ‘not having’ seem the safer route. If I don’t build the bridges, the bandits can’t cross. If I don’t reach out, no one can cut off my hand. If I don’t give myself away, I remain intact.

You can’t grieve for something that was never yours.

Or can you?

It turns out that you can. I have existed with a permanent loneliness which I only recently was able to recognize for being what it is. It’s always had labels like ‘independence’ and ‘self-reliance’ and to a degree those are absolutely on the nose, but behind those things is this big, empty space between what I call my ‘Public Face’ and the rest of me. A metaphorical no man’s land, only I’ve always pictured it as a vast, open stretch of ocean, surrounding a tiny, rocky outcrop, which is where my interior self lives. Sure, she could go swimming, try to get to somewhere else that’s less desolate, less isolated, but she knows there are sharks, and she knows that you never see them until it’s too late. Does she want to leave her island? Of course she does. She knows there’s something else out there beyond the horizon that’s less lonely--she knows, because it exists around her, on the other side of her ‘Public Face’. She can look, but she can’t touch. Well, she could, but that would mean braving the sharks, and probably losing limbs.



So would it be worth it? Everybody says it is. “Come on over this side, everyone’s lovely and we have cake!” They don’t seem to see the minefield in between, the deadly obstacle course I’d have to run to get there. “It’s nothing, why are you worried? Just come across the grass.”

“There are snakes in the grass.”

“No, there aren’t. You’ll be fine. After the grass, there’s a little bridge, you just have to cross that and you’ll be here.”

“There’s alligators under that bridge, and all the boards are rotted through.”

“Looks fine and dandy from where we’re sitting. What are you so scared of?”

“You’re made of bees.”

“Bzzzzzzzz!”

“I...I think I’ll stay here, thanks.”

Sometimes, it’s easier to live without--even though it’s without something you know you want. Something you know you need.

The less you have, the less you have to lose.

(I had a shitty week, okay?)

Necessity is the mother of invention, but accidents are far more likely.

Have you ever sat back and thought about how things that are ubiquitous today were discovered in the first place? Things we now think we can’t possibly live without didn’t just magically appear out of the ether--someone made a concerted effort (or possibly a mistake, or maybe even lost a bet) to create them for the benefit of themselves and others. Obviously a great deal of the progress of humankind has been centered around great inventions like the wheel, and those are certainly noteworthy, but it’s the random little things that give me pause for thought--the things we take for granted, or at the very least simply don’t think about because in our world they’ve always existed. Some of these things have had a significant impact on the whole of humankind, while others are kind of quirky, but somewhere, at some point, someone had a ‘Eureka’ moment and that’s how we ended up with:

Coffee
Back in the mists of time in the jungles of South America, some indigenous person identified the coffee bean as a food source. Maybe this discovery was made by watching the local fauna feast on the fruit of the plant and thereby deciding that since the birds didn’t drop dead immediately upon consumption that it was probably okay for people to eat the fruit, too. But here’s the kicker--Mr. or Ms. Indigenous took it one step further. Well, I guess it was several steps, really. Somehow it went from eating the beans straight off the tree to roasting them and grinding them up and running hot water over them and turning them into a beverage. How? How did that happen? Who was walking up the steps of the Temple of the Jaguar one day and suddenly said, “Hey, I know what! Let’s take those bean things we like and do all this stuff to them to make them into a drink so that thousands of years from now people can pay $7 for a cup of it and annoy the heck out of the barista with an unnecessarily complicated order”? A true genius, that’s who.

The same goes for tea and chocolate and a lot of other plant-based foodstuffs, really. Corn syrup, sugar, ice cream...and maple syrup? What doofus was running around in the wilds of Canada and stopped to lick a tree?! It was probably the same guy who saw what the bees were making and decided he needed to lick that, too.

Glass
Glass is a BIG DEAL. We use it for tons of stuff, and it made a world of difference in the realms of medicine and sanitation, but who set the damn beach on fire and figured it out in the first place? Sand, limestone, soda ash. What are the odds that those three things were in the same place at the same time and got heated up to the correct temperature to make glass happen?
“Hi, Bob. Whatcha got there?”

“Oh, just a pile of sandy stuff. If you wanna stick around I think I might set fire to it.”

“...Why?”

“No reason, just thought it might be fun.”

I’m sure that’s not how it was at all, but I like this version better.

Gemstones
This is a weird one. I know that humans (and jackdaws) love a good shiny thing, and of course I know that gemstones are Very Shiny Things in their natural state. So who was the guy who woke up one morning and thought, “I think I’ll go try to make the shiny things even shinier”? Someone literally took a hacksaw (or other, probably more appropriate tool) to a purple rock at some point and now we have a rush on amethyst jewelry every February. Obviously some minerals come in a sort of pre-cut shape--geodes and crystals and whatnot--so it may originally have been an attempt to emulate that, but it’s a far cry from what we recognize as a diamond today back to “Oooh! Shiny rock!” This one just feels like putting two and two together and making five.

Jigsaw Puzzles
This one just makes me shake my head. I love jigsaw puzzles. They’re relaxing, you can do them alone or if you do them with other people it’s a nice, non-competitive activity. You can glue them together and frame them when you’re done, or break them up and put them back in the box to do again another time or give to someone else to enjoy. But what goofball saw a picture or a painting and thought, “I know! I’ll bust that up into a bunch of pieces and then put it back together again. It’ll be great!”

I love jigsaws, I do, but if you really think about it, the concept is just ludicrous. Talk about an exercise in futility.

How to Drive in California

Today, we will be exploring the correct way to drive in the state of California. California is unique in its geography, weather, and demographic spectrum, and while we could spend an infinite amount of time exploring the equally infinite microcosms of Californian driverhood, for purposes of simplification we will be examining the driving conditions and stipulations of the Greater San Francisco Bay Area.

Firstly, you must evaluate your driving needs: Will you be commuting? Will you only do some occasional driving, like once or twice a week to work and the rest of the time for small, local errands? Are you shuttling kids around? Do you need towing capacity for your weekend activities? Once you have determined your ‘must-haves’ in a vehicle, scrap the entire list and buy a BMW (or equivalent Mercedes, Audi, Lexus, or other luxury automobile.)

Next, know your terrain. Whether you are driving on twisty mountain roads, long stretches of straightaway through agricultural fields, cramped, congested city streets, or eight-lane freeways, always remember: It’s your road, you are the most important motorist on it, and everyone else needs to get the fuck out of your way.

The rules of the road only apply if you’re going to get caught breaking them. Speed limits and red lights are more suggestions than hard-and-fast regulations. It doesn’t matter in what order you arrive at the four-way stop, the object is to be the first person to get to go. Pass on the right if you feel like it. If you can make it, make the U-turn. ‘Keep Clear’ zones just clog things up--go ahead and sit in the middle of them. Same goes for blocking intersections on red lights. And hey, if no one sees you doing it, why shouldn’t you use the carpool lane when you’re driving by yourself? Let the other drivers prove you don’t have an infant in the back seat!

Dealing with other drivers is a pain no matter where you are. If someone is going too slow for your liking, tailgating is absolutely acceptable. Flashing your lights and honking your horn should accompany any and all close-proximity driving, as it warns the offending driver that you are there and you mean business. This works the same in reverse, of course. If someone behind you is going too fast, apply your brakes liberally, and try to do so in such a way that the offending tailgater can’t change lanes to avoid you. Hey, if he rear ends you it’s automatically his fault!

And speaking of changing lanes, you have three options open to you. Option number one is the safe and sane way--checking your mirrors and blind spot, making sure there’s enough space for your vehicle, adjusting your speed accordingly, signaling, and making the transition in as smooth a manner as possible. Option number one is boring and to be avoided at all costs. Option number two is to find a break in traffic where your car fits, line yourself up, start signaling, and then promptly slow down so that your rear bumper and the front bumper of the car at the back of the space into which you wish to merge are in line with each other. Continue to signal, but do not make any attempt to speed up the little bit it would take to get you safely into the other lane. This is sure to make the driver of the vehicle in front of which you are trying to merge absolutely seethe with annoyance. Option number three is to leave the consequences to luck and zip in and out of traffic without looking or signaling, thus causing everyone else to have to make way for you. After all, it is your road. Conversely, if you see someone attempting to change lanes you must make it as difficult as possible for them to do this--just because.

It is your sacred duty to wait until the last possible second to exit any freeway.

Road hazards such as curves (no matter how slight), hills, irregularities in paving, cars pulled off to the shoulder (especially if accompanied by law enforcement), and construction zones should all be approached with the same technique--the sudden and forceful application of your brakes. Otherwise, who knows what might happen?

Of course, all of this is easy enough under normal driving conditions, but we do need to make mention of the biggest problem drivers face: the weather. While the San Francisco Bay Area usually enjoys mild temperatures, occasionally weather happens. Here are some common adverse weather conditions and how to deal with them.

Strong winds
Make sure to drift across lanes and then snap back into the one you were originally in. A half-assed ‘Sorry’ wave is customary in these situations to anyone you may have nearly broadsided.

Fog
Your high beams will simply reflect back at you in the fog, so ensure that you have them on to facilitate maximum annoyance to yourself and others. Also, any suggested speed should be decreased by approximately 30 miles per hour, and make sure to brake for no reason every so often.

Rain
Water falling from the sky is always cause for alarm. Apply your brakes frequently and liberally, and travel at a minimum of 10 miles per hour below the suggested speed. If you anticipate making any turns or changing lanes, make sure to make these transitions as slowly and painstakingly as possible while ensuring that you purposefully delay or cut off anyone behind you. If you come upon any of the road hazards mentioned above, apply your brakes earlier and harder than you would under normal driving conditions.

Snow
Call in sick to work.

I hope you have found these tips helpful and that you will consult this definitive article before embarking upon any future car journeys within the quadrant bordered by Santa Rosa to the north, Brentwood to the east, Gilroy to the south, and the Pacific Ocean to the west. Your fellow drivers will applaud your commitment to the Bay Area standards of automobile transport, and you will be safe in the knowledge that you’re absolutely the only person on the road who matters.