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.