Sprung At Last

Teen Tales: The Rube Goldberg Machine

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The Child has a big project at school: Build a Rube Goldberg machine. It’s for her science class, and the teacher sends out an email to all the parents, asking us to please give up a room or some space in the garage for this project for a while. It’s a large part of the final grade for the class. Do not let your student wait until the last minute, she says. Also, the only thing mom or dad can help with is the final video, and use of any power tools that might be used in the construction.

Basically, I have to: 1) give up my garage – which is hardly a problem since the remote remains nonfunctional – and 2) not help The Child unless power tools are involved – which is also not a problem, since she will rarely consent to help from Mom, and although we own a couple of power tools, whether or not they are functional is an iffy proposition. They were, after all, previously under the care of The Departed.

She has big ideas, and starts constructing things in the garage. Boxes are moved, things are suspended with twine from the ceiling, long-forgotten k’nex come out of the attic. It seems like there is quite a bit of fun going on out there, or at least it seems like fun to me, whose childhood construction efforts began and ended with living room blanket forts.

She doesn’t seem to think so, and frequently scowls as she comes out of the garage.

I visit every so often to check on progress or suggest items she might use, but my involvement mostly consists of helping her find time to work on this, or reminding her what the schedule is, or, on one occasion, hosing a can of red latex paint off the driveway, where it accidentally spilled after proving unsuitably heavy for its assigned task. She was surprised I wasn’t angry about the paint; I was surprised she managed to spill an entire half gallon of paint and not hit anything I cared about.

On the same evening as the red paint incident, I was out to dinner, I received a text message: I FINISHED!!! It was accompanied by a video that I could not watch in the middle of the restaurant I was in – but I congratulated her and said, I can’t wait to see it when I’m home.

What she had done was rig up a simple pulley system to tip a pitcher that filled a water cup. It worked, although it struck me as a bit simple to be called a Rube Goldberg. I asked about this and was told, It can be any length. I took her word for this until another parent I know posted their child’s video up on Facebook: a lovely gadget with numerous steps involving tinkertoys, semi-professional video titles, and an audience of webkinz. The Child has worked for two weeks, nonstop, and her project looks nothing like this elegant contraption.

I panic a bit.

I question her about the project guidelines, and am told that she followed the instructions, and it can be any length – but it seems to me there must be some guiding principles to the thing that will determine a grade. She insists she got no such thing, and after much discussion and no real information, I leave having only managed to persuade her that maybe she should clean up the area around her project before making her video presentation.

She does this, then reluctantly agrees to add another step to her Rube Goldberg, just to get me off her back. After another couple of nights in the garage, she has rigged up a row of books that will topple like dominoes after being hit by a garden shovel on yet another pulley, set in motion by more book dominoes. This seems more like it – and after much more discussion on the topic, she finally locates the original project outline from the teacher. She’s astonished to discover that that her original finished project would have earned her a failing grade for two weeks’ effort, and very pleased that the current version appears to be a passing grade.

Mom gets off her back and helps her make a video, which she emails it to her teacher. After several days, all the students’ project videos are shown in class. I ask how it went.

I did a lot more than other people, she says.

But did they like it? I inquire.

Yes, it was great, but I did a lot more than other people.

She’s quite angry about this point. I ask her to describe the other projects, and she describes a couple that are very fancy – like the tinkertoy one, and another apparently involving a trebuchet built from scratch – but most of them were just a few seconds long. Nothing like what she did. Nothing like the effort she put in.

I point out that she will probably get a better grade for her project, and she gets madder still. You just don’t understand, she tells me. Never mind.

I don’t. I want her to do the work I know she is capable of, and I want her to be proud of her efforts and be proud of the good grades that come from those efforts. Instead, she’s done a much better project than many classmates apparently did, yet she’s angry about it for reasons she can’t explain.

Not to me.

Still, the following evening, I hear noises from the garage, and discover that all the kids from our street are there, helping her set up her Rube Goldberg machine so they can watch it go – again.

Tuna and White Bean Salad

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I had to change computers recently, when my old computer started making strange whirring noises and mostly, working very, very slowly. I’m pretty sure it had some sort of virus on it, too, because the browser started acting strangely. Anyway, my father – who firmly believes I should rid myself of anything associated with The Departed – decided to replace my old computer, which was lucky for me, because things just zip along now in a way they never did before, and the world is a much prettier place when viewed on my new monitor. I’m slowly moving files over from the old machine, but it’s a tedious task: the old computer is very reluctant to give them up, and complains loudly when I attempt to. I’m moving only what I must.

This is a roundabout way of saying, I lost some stuff, and it’s not my fault.

One of the things I lost was a recipe that I had saved on my desktop, for Tuna and White Bean salad. It sounded like such a lovely combination, and perhaps more important, like something The Child might eat, because those are basically two of the only things she does eat.  I think the recipe may have included artichoke hearts, a favorite of mine, but I wouldn’t swear to it.

We’ll never know, because it’s gone, and several attempt to Google that exact recipe ended in failure – although I came up with numerous other similar recipes.

Yet again, though, I got lucky: I received a review copy of Hazan Family Favorites by Giuliano Hazan. Giuliano is the son of Marcella Hazan, whose Essentials of Classic Italian Cooking really transformed my cooking, with its simple recipes and clear explanations of what to do and why when cooking them.

I was pleased to discover that not only does Hazan Family Favorites have a recipe for Tuna, Bean, and Red Onion salad, but also that it is written in similar fashion to Marcella’s masterwork, with clear explanations of what you need to know to really get a recipe right.

In this recipe, Hazan explains, you really don’t want to use the bland water-packed tuna you probably have a can of on your shelves; rather, you want to use Italian olive-oil packed tuna, and if possible, the kind that comes packed in a glass jar, as it is typically the best quality. After a lifetime spent eating the American canned stuff, it was hard for me to get my mind around the idea of flavorful tuna, and harder still when I got to the store and found several varieties of Italian glass-jarred tuna, the cheapest of which sold for $7. Still, I bought it, and was stunned to discover that this tuna was moist and very, very richly flavored.

I made the salad as directed, with the minor modification of reducing the amount of olive oil from Hazan’s version, as it seemed oily enough after 2 tbsps – though this may have been a result of me not draining the tuna sufficiently, probably because I was too busy savoring it and trying to restrain myself from eating it straight from the jar. Use your judgment on the oil, that’s all I’m saying.

I offered a plate of the salad to The Child, who pronounced it delicious, and also observed that it was the first time she had ever eaten a fresh onion that she liked. Hazan recommends soaking the onion slices for 15 minutes to cut the sharpness, and I think this is spot-on; there is still a nice kick from the fresh onion, but they aren’t overbearing.

It’s a simple dish to make, but packed with flavor, which improves the next day. Hazan claims it serves four, which it might as a starter. It made two dinners and a lunch at our house.

Tuna and White Bean Salad

 

Tuna and White Bean Salad
 
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Prep time
Total time
 
Author:
Serves: 4
Ingredients
  • ½ small red onion
  • 7 ounces canned tuna packed in olive oil, drained
  • 2 cups canned cannellini beans, rinsed and drained
  • 1 tbsp red wine vinegar
  • 2 tbsp olive oil
  • salt and pepper to taste
Instructions
  1. Peel the onion and thinly slice it crosswise. Put the slices into a bowl and cover with cold water. Let soak for 15 minutes.
  2. Place the tuna in a large serving bowl and break into pieces with a fork. Add the beans. Drain the water from the onions and pat dry; add onions to the bowl.
  3. Season with salt and pepper, add oil and vinegar, and toss to mix thoroughly.
Notes
I used ¼ of a large red onion, which was the only size available. I cut the amount of olive oil to 2 tbsp from Hazan's 3.
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Making New Friends: A Cup Of Coffee (Part 4)

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Driving home, I wonder what went wrong over dinner, to change Mr. Faraway’s demeanor so much, so quickly, and cause our evening to end with a dismissive goodbye. I think maybe I said something to offend, but I cannot imagine what it might have been. More likely, I think, he simply realized that there must be someone better out there: someone more thin, or more reserved, or younger, or blond, or whatever it was that he suddenly realized that he really wanted that I was not.

Things often seen wonderful onscreen and then disappoint in person.

But none of this feels quite right, and I can’t put my finger on it. I decide maybe I should say something, so I decide perhaps a simple text message saying thank you might help me figure it out. If he ignores it, then I know something happened, though I might never know what. If he replies, then I’ll deal with whatever comes. At least I’ll know, I tell myself.

It’s late, and I’m driving, and there’s no traffic at all, so I manage to hit green light after green light in a way that doesn’t seem possible. I finally pull off the main road for a moment, and park on the side just long enough to text: Thank you.

I start to head home and try to think about anything else. How fun it is to drive when there’s no other traffic. I zip across the bridge from Seattle toward my house.

My phone pings, then pings again.

Then again.

I can’t read them with the car moving, and there’s noplace I can stop. I get home quickly, though, and say goodnight to The Child, and then check my phone.

Thank you, he replied, that was fun! He was delighted to discover I was familiar with the movie Battleship Potemkin.

I texted back: I was a film major, it was an important movie … and I enjoyed the evening very much.

And a few minutes later, he replies again, telling me what a delight it all was, and what a wonderful companion he had.

The following afternoon, he texts again, just to let me know how much he enjoyed our dinner, and thanking me.

I reply, I should be the one thanking you – I hope we can do it again sometime.

This time, though, he does not reply.

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