“Face it guys, we’re kinda’ crass when it comes to hygiene!”
Well, the headline did catch my eye! “Face it guys, we’re kinda’ crass when it comes to hygiene!”
It was in the on-line edition of The Calgary Herald (Sunday, April 9, 2006), and told of one student’s science display topic at the science fair. Seems this student has documented evidence that the bathroom door handle to the little girl’s room in her school had less bacteria than the bathroom door handle of the little boy’s room.
So what else is new. When boys pick their nose they eat it and when girls do, they throw it away!?!
But at church today, it wasn’t about the little boy’s room. Rather, in this case, it was the big boy’s room. The big boy’s room is rather little. The cramped little cubicle of a men’s restroom in the church that I attend. It was finally my turn at the one and only sink in the place to wash my hands. And wow! Was that water hot! I trust it was less than 140 degrees F., the supposed safety limit for water temperatures in public places by county ordinance, but it had to be close.
I dutifully sang “Happy Birthday” under my breath twice. (For that is the length of time it takes to effectively wash one’s hands, at least that is how we teach employees in the food service industry as we implement the “Serv-Safe Food Sanitation Guidelines” that we are certified to uphold.) But the guy behind me was breathin’ down my neck trying to get me to speed up. As I was throwing my paper towel into the trash, I remarked to him, “That water is hot!”
“Oh, good! That’ll kill the germs!” he barked out, as about two drops of hot water splashed on the end of his finger!
Problem is – as hot as that water was, it is still in the “Danger Zone.” The temperature range for prolific bacterial growth. “Keep things hot, or keep things cold, or don’t keep it long.” And by hot, it is meant keeping things greater than 140 degrees F. By cold, it is meant 40 degrees F. or colder.
And so the little sprinkling of danger-zone water on the danger-zone tips of that guy’s danger zone fingers would have just added to the contamination of that danger-zone door handle to that science fair danger-zone student’s danger-zone project.
Funny! We are all danger zone. Look at our body temperature! Right smack in the middle! How dangerous can we be?!
Dangerous we are, but well intentioned.
I still have to chuckle at the “zone of danger” we were interviewing for a job. I was the food service director in a rural hospital in Northern California. My young chef, an hourly employee, and the Assistant HR director and I were conducting the panel interview for a basic dietary aide position.
The candidate was a middle-aged lady with a background of which I should not have been aware (all those “illegal” things to avoid asking about in a hiring interview), but in a small town, reputations do precede.
But it is certainly appropriate and “OK” to ask work-related questions. So I asked the candidate to describe for me how a food service worker should wash their hands.
She was flustered, and gave a hand-wringing, wringing hands demonstration of how to wring hands while washing them.
My chef asked her how long she should do that little procedure? (Remember … twice the length of “Happy Birthday!”)
Bless her heart, and she blurted out “I suppose about 10 seconds, but I can do it faster if you want me too!”
I hope she didn’t see me flinch!
And talking about flinching. Or quinching. Or queasing. Or just plain queasy. But the typical Adventist potluck is a danger-zone of gastronomique proportions. Not that it isn’t all “health food” directly descended from the original gluttons gluten of Battlecreek Sanitarium, it is that “health food” by definition is “potentially hazardous.”
“Potentially hazardous” in that it is a moist mixture of protein in which bacteria just passionately love to have single-cell sex and breed all kinds of nasty things. And remember that “keep it hot, or keep it cold, or don’t keep it long thing?” Well, the don’t keep it long thing is 2 hours max. An epic life-time for the flourishing sex addicts in potentially hazardous foods. But shorter than the soul-feeding part preceding the body-feeding part of a typical pot luck Sabbath.
You know the drill. Early Sabbath morning. The gluten steaks, the Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom Soup, the shredded cheddar cheese, the extra scoops of sour cream, a little sautéed minced garlic, maybe some French fried onions sprinkled on top for garnish . . . then into the oven to bake for a few minutes during the frenzy of getting everybody ready for church. What could be more healthy than that! Then the wrapping of the old casserole dish (the one that is chipped on the corner so that if it gets lost at potluck, it won’t matter) in layers of newspaper, secured with duck tape, and then wedged into the trunk of the car.
Short half hour trip to church! Then somebody runs the newspaper package into the fellowship hall and sticks it on the counter.
Five hours later, after the “health food” has festered in the high life of the danger zone, the ravenous parishioners are called to gather around for the blessing on the bounty of the table. Doesn’t matter that two little boys have already rifled the olive dish and are proudly waving 10-olive laden digits in each other’s face, and some shy little girl has snuck a quick finger-lickin’ taste of the chocolate swirl icing on the swirled chocolate cake.
But hey! We’re asking the blessing! Now is that faith or presumption? But what can one do? But to find that one person in the congregation with the best connection to heaven to beg for the safety of this stuff!
So what of the occasional retching and squirting of Montezuma’s Revenge, just face it guys, we’re not only kinda’ crass when it comes to hygiene, we’re macho as well!
The Refectory Manager
It was in the on-line edition of The Calgary Herald (Sunday, April 9, 2006), and told of one student’s science display topic at the science fair. Seems this student has documented evidence that the bathroom door handle to the little girl’s room in her school had less bacteria than the bathroom door handle of the little boy’s room.
So what else is new. When boys pick their nose they eat it and when girls do, they throw it away!?!
But at church today, it wasn’t about the little boy’s room. Rather, in this case, it was the big boy’s room. The big boy’s room is rather little. The cramped little cubicle of a men’s restroom in the church that I attend. It was finally my turn at the one and only sink in the place to wash my hands. And wow! Was that water hot! I trust it was less than 140 degrees F., the supposed safety limit for water temperatures in public places by county ordinance, but it had to be close.
I dutifully sang “Happy Birthday” under my breath twice. (For that is the length of time it takes to effectively wash one’s hands, at least that is how we teach employees in the food service industry as we implement the “Serv-Safe Food Sanitation Guidelines” that we are certified to uphold.) But the guy behind me was breathin’ down my neck trying to get me to speed up. As I was throwing my paper towel into the trash, I remarked to him, “That water is hot!”
“Oh, good! That’ll kill the germs!” he barked out, as about two drops of hot water splashed on the end of his finger!
Problem is – as hot as that water was, it is still in the “Danger Zone.” The temperature range for prolific bacterial growth. “Keep things hot, or keep things cold, or don’t keep it long.” And by hot, it is meant keeping things greater than 140 degrees F. By cold, it is meant 40 degrees F. or colder.
And so the little sprinkling of danger-zone water on the danger-zone tips of that guy’s danger zone fingers would have just added to the contamination of that danger-zone door handle to that science fair danger-zone student’s danger-zone project.
Funny! We are all danger zone. Look at our body temperature! Right smack in the middle! How dangerous can we be?!
Dangerous we are, but well intentioned.
I still have to chuckle at the “zone of danger” we were interviewing for a job. I was the food service director in a rural hospital in Northern California. My young chef, an hourly employee, and the Assistant HR director and I were conducting the panel interview for a basic dietary aide position.
The candidate was a middle-aged lady with a background of which I should not have been aware (all those “illegal” things to avoid asking about in a hiring interview), but in a small town, reputations do precede.
But it is certainly appropriate and “OK” to ask work-related questions. So I asked the candidate to describe for me how a food service worker should wash their hands.
She was flustered, and gave a hand-wringing, wringing hands demonstration of how to wring hands while washing them.
My chef asked her how long she should do that little procedure? (Remember … twice the length of “Happy Birthday!”)
Bless her heart, and she blurted out “I suppose about 10 seconds, but I can do it faster if you want me too!”
I hope she didn’t see me flinch!
And talking about flinching. Or quinching. Or queasing. Or just plain queasy. But the typical Adventist potluck is a danger-zone of gastronomique proportions. Not that it isn’t all “health food” directly descended from the original gluttons gluten of Battlecreek Sanitarium, it is that “health food” by definition is “potentially hazardous.”
“Potentially hazardous” in that it is a moist mixture of protein in which bacteria just passionately love to have single-cell sex and breed all kinds of nasty things. And remember that “keep it hot, or keep it cold, or don’t keep it long thing?” Well, the don’t keep it long thing is 2 hours max. An epic life-time for the flourishing sex addicts in potentially hazardous foods. But shorter than the soul-feeding part preceding the body-feeding part of a typical pot luck Sabbath.
You know the drill. Early Sabbath morning. The gluten steaks, the Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom Soup, the shredded cheddar cheese, the extra scoops of sour cream, a little sautéed minced garlic, maybe some French fried onions sprinkled on top for garnish . . . then into the oven to bake for a few minutes during the frenzy of getting everybody ready for church. What could be more healthy than that! Then the wrapping of the old casserole dish (the one that is chipped on the corner so that if it gets lost at potluck, it won’t matter) in layers of newspaper, secured with duck tape, and then wedged into the trunk of the car.
Short half hour trip to church! Then somebody runs the newspaper package into the fellowship hall and sticks it on the counter.
Five hours later, after the “health food” has festered in the high life of the danger zone, the ravenous parishioners are called to gather around for the blessing on the bounty of the table. Doesn’t matter that two little boys have already rifled the olive dish and are proudly waving 10-olive laden digits in each other’s face, and some shy little girl has snuck a quick finger-lickin’ taste of the chocolate swirl icing on the swirled chocolate cake.
But hey! We’re asking the blessing! Now is that faith or presumption? But what can one do? But to find that one person in the congregation with the best connection to heaven to beg for the safety of this stuff!
So what of the occasional retching and squirting of Montezuma’s Revenge, just face it guys, we’re not only kinda’ crass when it comes to hygiene, we’re macho as well!
The Refectory Manager
posted by The Refectory Manager | 8:28 PM
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