birthday, or how to make butter for real

it started the thursday just before, i guess, with one class of ninth graders who managed to show an interest in cat's cradle, a game mentioned in our book. not just interest, i have to explain, but fascination. and so all those pieces of yarn lying on windowsills and in defunct sink and in lockers all around the classroom suddenly tied these children up in little bundles, all crowded around a single child in each group whose fingers supported, or more often were caught up in, the web of yarn. and they were asking to get a chance to try it, then asking someone with skill to explain to them what to do. they were willing to learn something that sounded endlessly boring on paper. this is the single most important thing we've been trying to teach them all year.

they are calm and kind and gracious to one another there in class all wrapped in yarn and the other teacher in the room and i figure this is the sign we've been looking for, the sign that they can be in a room together while shaking small glass jars and probably nobody will get hurt. these are the things you need to consider when you spend your days with ninth graders. and so on friday she brings in bread and cups and napkins and i bring in butter colored roses and jams and fat cream. they are unable to get past the roses. they are suspicious of my reasoning: people should have flowers on the table when they sit down to eat. they know about the bread and roses strike. they know give us bread but give us roses, too. they know we cannot survive on bread alone. while they work on the beginnings of their stories i put the roses into the small vases i keep in the metal cabinet for just these sorts of things. floral emergencies.

when they have all done work and it is time, they put the tables together and crowd around in four groups because i can only find four empty jars. i explain to them them what we'll do while other adults in the room fill the small jars with heavy cream. the children screw lids onto the jars and begin shaking. it is more work than they expected to shake these jars. five or ten minutes is a much longer time than they were thinking it was and so they all take turns, careful not to stop shaking as they transfer the jars from one child to another.

i am vague about what will happen, just promising them butter and insisting on the constant shaking of the jars. one child calls out that their group has butter. i ask if they are sure and they nod solemnly. they are absolutely sure. we hand out plastic knives and slices of fresh bread from the neighborhood bakery and jam from the same store where the bacon chocolate waits. this is my second year making butter in class and i am surprised, just as i was last year, that they're so eager to participate. like with the cat's cradle. they sit together around the tables and pass things gently to one another. not like when they throw notebooks and pens and paperbacks across the room. more like would you like to try some of this delicious ginger peach jam? they like the butter and devour the bread with everything on it. they do not shy away from the lemon curd or the blueberry preserves.

when it is time to go they clean up and put the tables back. i tell them to take the roses and they are shocked to find them thorny and brambly when they try to pull them from the vases. real roses, not those naked longstemmed sawdust smelling things. still, they manage to separate the stems and nobody who wants roses leaves roseless. they stand around, waiting for the bell, their noses buried in the yellow petals. they are oldlady roses, small and irregularly shaped, but smelling like what rose really means. several clutch the butter-filled jars to their chests. for later. for evidence.

this is what i asked for. they wanted to know what i hoped i'd get for my birthday and i said i want to make butter. i said it because at the time i'd wanted them to shut up and do some work. and for some reason home made butter is exotic to these children, exotic enough they'll shut up and do some work if they think they'll get butter. so what i get is more than the small jars of sweet, pale butter i'd asked for. when one girl, generally loud, the kind who slaps boys hard to let them know she likes them, writes on the board thank you and then slips quietly back to her seat, i want to shout to them to look around, see themselves. i want them to know they decided to learn something new and then they paid attention and worked together and accomplished something. i want them to know the butter is the reward for how they worked and what they did. i want them to know they are okay with having butter - butter- as a reward. i want this to be one of those teachable moments where everyone gets it. i want this the way they wanted butter. so i keep my mouth shut. i don't ruin it.

the bell rings and they walk out in twos and threes, on to the last class of their friday. their voices rise up out of the stairwell, trailing behind them words about butter and roses.