Keep it in Your Lunchbox

Thanks to Jasen for pointing out the goings-on of my own state. I should have caught this, but I was busy taking heat for leaving out everybody’s favorite states in Friday’s blog. Well, it’s time to amend this. Two birds. One stone. Let’s go.

When we last left the kids at US Elementary, it was the first day of school. Now everybody knows that the first day is mainly an opportunity to brag about what you did over the summer, fill your desk with new school supplies, and take care of other administrative tasks, like dropping off medication at the nurse’s office (North Carolina has a wicked smoker’s cough) and the assignment of student cubbyholes (Washington got stuck with the top left corner. Tip toes, indeed.) General rule of the first day of school. Don’t plan to learn anything.

And after a whole morning of not learning, these kids need a break. It’s off to the cafeteria, where kids have several dining options in front of them. Some kids bring their lunch in brown paper bags. Unsatisfied with their one-flavor sandwiches, Virginia and Wisconsin do some horse trading so that they both end up with ham AND cheese. Florida, forgetful in her old age, forget her lunch on the bus. Others decide to give the cafeteria staff a try and opt to purchase their lunch. Nevada, fresh off from taking Maryland’s money, buys two plates worth of rectangular pizza, and then wins Arizona’s iced tea to wash it all down. But for the most part, the class sits down at the long, white tables and snap open their personalized lunch boxes.

Everyone but Mississippi, who’s back in the classroom struggling to learn how to spell her own name. Why wouldn’t her parents let her go by Missi, anyway?

A dilemma is brewing inside the lunchbox of New Jersey.

What seemed to be an unassuming meal of fruits and vegetables has turned into a raging debate in the café, not to mention the State Senate of the Garden State. The premise seems simple enough: there is a constituency that would like the tomato to be recognized as the Official State Vegetable. What the potato did for Idaho, these lobbyists want the tomato to do for Jersey. But there’s one minor problem…

New Jersey: Look, my family is very well known for our tomatoes, and that’s why I bring them for lunch. I just think my family should be known for its vegetables, and this is out best.
Utah: Sounds good to me.
Louisiana: Me too, oui, oui. By the way, I lost my lunch money. West Virginia, can you spare a French quarter?
West Virginia: No way, Louisiana. I hear Nevada can double my money if I play him in kickball during recess. Anyways, there’s a problem with your request, NJ.
New Jersey: And what may that be?
West Virginia: A tomato isn’t a vegetable.
Missouri: It’s a fruit.
New Jersey: Yes, I know. But we voted the blueberry to be my family’s state fruit two years ago. The tomato needs recognition!
Oregon: Yeah, and I need one, just one distinguishable characteristic. Why do people keep calling me Washington?
Rhode Island: SO WHAT if you are just a face in the crowd. California has been calling me a poseur all day long. I swear on the name of Roger Williams that my ancestors were islands!
New Jersey: Can we get back to my platform, please? I still contend that a tomato can be a family vegetable. If there was only some legislative precedent-
Michigan: But there is, NJ. Apparently, the United States Supreme Court ruled in 1887 that a tomato, if not biologically, LEGALLY is a vegetable. While figuring out what types of produce to apply a vegetable tariff tax, it was ruled that a tomato is a vegetable.
Kansas: Wow, I don’t think we’re in the second grade anymore.
Minnesota: No way, eh. How did you get to be such a brain, Michigan?
Michigan: You’re a brain.

(All the kids are uproarious with laughter, especially Arkansas and Massachusetts – the quiet kids in class.)

The bell rings to signal recess. All the kids go outside to play. Indiana sits down to eat his lunch.