Are you catching my drift?

I tend to assume that after hiking all day, people get a little crazy. So after hiking two mountains today, two very very tall mountains, Sarah was probably just being silly when she said her diner food all tasted like apples. At least, that's what the rest of us thought the first time she mentioned it.

Sarah ordered a veggie burger and piled ketchup on it after getting the bottle from Miranda. I took the ketchup and put some on my burger and fries, handing it off to Jenny, though by the time we got it there was not much left, and we borrowed a bottle from the table behind us. As we're munching and talking about how good food was after hiking all day, Sarah starts complaining again that her ketchup tastes like apples. At this point Miranda jumps in and says "mine too!" and we all look at each other and burst into laughter.

Jenny and I, perplexed, try some of Miranda's ketchup and find to our surprise that they aren't crazy and ours was simply dilluted-- the ketchup actually tasted like apple cinnamon.

Our waiter came to ask if everything was okay, and we burst into laughter a second time as we tried to explain that our ketchup tasted like it had cinnamon applesauce in it... We couldn't help it, but we knew he probably thought we were wackos. Being a good waiter, he took our ketchup bottle and promised to ask the kitchen about it. And us, trying to be nice, assured him that it wasn't that bad, just a little strange.

A few minutes later he came back. "So, I smelled your ketchup bottle to check" (that you guys aren't psycho) "and you're right, it smells like cinnamon." And he handed us a new ketchup bottle. We attempted to give the table behind us their ketchup back, but after hearing us giggle maniacally about it they decided that they didn't want it.


Sachi

No Aliens

First graders are amusing. I work as a teaching assistant in a first grade class at my temple. Last Sunday, the kids were decorating bags in which to give toiletry items to women in a homeless shelter or something like that.

The girls in the class immediately began drawing pink and yellow flowers and hearts. But the boys were potentially an issue.

"Remember," said the teacher, "these bags are for mothers and children so decorate them appropriately."

"No Star Wars," said one girl.

"Right," said the teacher.

"And no sports?" said a boy.

"Right. No sports," said the teacher.

"Can we draw aliens?" asked one boy.

"No, no aliens," the teacher answered.

"Oh," said the boy. "I already drawed an alien." I looked over at his bag and there sure enough was a neon green, three-eyed alien drawn in the middle of it.

It was a very cute alien, so I'm sure the recipient will enjoy it.

-Rebecca

Conscience and consiousness

I was walking to school, looking down. I wasn't looking down on purpose (after all, The Last of the Really Great Wangdoodles reminds us that we should all look up more often) but, on my lonely walk there was nothing to attract my attention, so as it happened, I was looking down.

As I took a step, just like all the other steps I had taken, at a reasonably fast pace to avoid arriving late to school, I suddenly noticed that the stick I was about to step on was not, in fact, a stick.

It was a worm.

I don't know how I knew it was a worm. It was brown, straight, and still. It looked just like a stick. I'm somewhat nearsighted, so I couldn't see it in so much detail. It seemed, to all evidence I was consciously processing, to be a stick.

But I must have somehow been subconsciously noticing something about it; I must have somehow noted that it was slowly slithering forward; and with no time for my subconscious to inform my conscious mind how it knew, it screamed at me: "It's a worm!"

Alas, it was too late. I had already completed too much of the step, and all I could do was put slightly less weight on the foot than normal.

After I had passed, my consciousness realized that it had absolutely no idea what had made it think that stick had been a worm. But remembering how sure my subconscious had seemed at the time, I turned around and looked at the stick.

It had curled up and was wriggling. In other words, it was a worm.

I don't know whether or not I injured it; after all I only gave it a fleeting glance as my feet continued to carry me to school. So as I walked on, I could only hope, for the poor, unfortunate worm's sake, that I had not in fact injured it.

So, here I am today, with a potential injured worm on my conscience, and a newfound trust for my subconscious.

-Rebecca