Miss Honig

Miss Honig  was a dark haired big boned woody lady. She's the one who screamed at us for watching the first snowfall from the window. We were in 7th grade home economics class learning how to make cinnamon toast. Some days we had to watch slideshows on how to make a visually balanced dinner. Don't cook mashed potatoes with cauliflower and white chowder because everything is white! Don't make everything the same shape. Don't, don't, don't, become a wealthy alcoholic housewife like all of the other Larchmont mothers sucking down triple martinis waiting for their husbands while their maids cooked supper for the kids.

One week a braless pale girl came in wearing a sheer lavender tunic. She showed us how to cut celery with the grain, "to protect the vitamins from falling out," she mumbled. 

The third week I showed the class how to make an apple pie and I baked it in class.  I was 13 and propelled to move beyond toast. When some of the filling leaked out during baking and caused a burn spot in her oven I was called out of my next class by the principal to clean the oven. Miss Honig had to get me back.