(Walks on stage holding a coffee mug like it’s a trophy. Sip. Slow nod.)

You can tell a lot about a school… by looking at the snack table.
Forget the mission statement. Forget the district vision board.
Show me the muffins and the coffee pot… and I’ll tell you exactly how this place runs.
(pause for laugh)

Now mornings usually start with what they call a “continental breakfast.”
Sounds fancy, right? (eyebrows up) That’s just marketing.
What it really means is fruit, yogurt, and granola… dumped into one giant communal bowl.
Like some kind of “choose your own adventure” trail mix.
(pause, hand gesture like scooping granola)

If you’re lucky, there are pastries.
If you’re really lucky… there are burritos.

And here in the Valley? We don’t play.
We’re talking chorizo and egg… machaca and egg…
And on truly blessed days… (looks up, hands in prayer) huevos con weenie.
(audience cheer/laugh)

And let’s be real—during the school year, food is not an everyday thing.

If someone brings snacks, it’s a holiday.

If there’s pizza, it’s basically a religious experience.

If donuts show up in the lounge, people act like they just saw a double rainbow.

And if somebody rolls in with breakfast burritos?

Forget it. Cancel the morning classes. We’re throwing a party.

(audience laugh)

And coffee. Always coffee.
The sacred, mood-altering nectar of life.
The one true mood-altering substance legally allowed in schools.
First pot’s gone before the custodian finishes the morning announcements.
Second pot? That’s when people start making eye contact again.
Third pot?
That’s when you’re color-coding pacing guides and talking about “vertical alignment” like you just invented education.
(big pause for laugh)

Now… curriculum planning days and professional development?
That’s snack season.
Full-on snack festivals with bursts of intense brain activity in between.
(pretend to write furiously while eating imaginary cookie)

Morning: pastries and fruit.
Mid-morning: trail mix.
Afternoon? Hot Cheetos (mime shaking bag, licking fingers), mystery cookies, and the last surviving donut hole from breakfast—lookin’ like it’s been through a war.

And lunch is always a gamble.
Is it a working lunch—a.k.a. “voluntold captivity”—where they bribe you with sandwiches while reading 47 slides?
Or do they let you loose to raid the taco shops?
Teachers can sprint to a drive-thru, inhale a plate of rolled tacos, and be back before the bell rings. That’s a skill. 

(pause for laugh)

Now, you’d think the teacher’s lounge is where the real snacking happens.
And you’d be right… kinda.
Sure, there’s the tub of Red Vines from September.
The sleeve of stale saltines.
And the mystery donut box that magically appears on Fridays.

But the real stash?
That’s in the classrooms.

Raise your hand if you’ve got a snack drawer.
(look around, point) Uh-huh. Thought so.

Family-size bag of almonds—pretend to be healthy.
Trail mix that’s 70% M&Ms, 30% peanuts… maybe.
Emergency chocolate bars.
And for the veterans? A full one-pound bag of peanut M&Ms they swear they’ll “ration.”

Yeah, right… gone by Wednesday.

(pause, shake head with a smile)

By 3:30 p.m., the coffee’s cold, the snack table’s wiped out, and the only thing left is a bag of baby carrots no one asked for.
But that’s okay.

Because tomorrow?
Tomorrow might just be… a huevos con weenie kind of day.
(hold mug up, slow sip, exit stage left)

In all seriousness, here’s to all the teachers out there—juggling lesson plans, lunches, and the eternal quest for the perfect snack. Thank you for your hard work, your patience, and those endless cups of coffee that keep this whole show running.

May your classrooms be calm, your Wi-Fi strong, and may the coffee be ever in your favor.

Enjoy this one? You might just be one of us. There’s more waiting at Inkblotz—stories and reflections that feel like remembering something you forgot you knew.