Dirt-and-Worms

The Digital Execution team is the frat house of the Marketing department.

On my side of the floor, us perfectly respectable executives and 30-something hustlers greet each other politely, then put on our noise-cancelling headphones, thank you very much.

But on the east side of the floor, the Digital Execution bros guffaw loudly in the middle of the workday. They prank each other’s cubicles and always seem to be planning a happy hour. By 4 PM on Fridays, the east side of the floor is a ghost town. Oh, it’s ski season, you say? Make that 3 PM.

So, when Jake from Digital Execution entered the annual baking contest hosted by our CMO, I braced myself for tomfoolery.

I entered the contest, too. I submitted a perfectly respectable, from-scratch, ginger-carrot cake with a very grown-up mascarpone frosting wedged between two decadent layers. No frosting on the sides, mind you. “Naked cakes” are the hip thing now. Very en vogue. I spent over an hour hand-grating fresh carrots, two pounds of them. Impressed?

Impressive or not, it turned out to be a popularity contest. The social power of the Digital Execution fraternity flooded the ballot box and jocular Jake took home top prize. His entry? Dirt-and-worms.

You read that right: Dirt. And. Worms.

It's a sad day in culinary history when impressive and en vogue give way to a dimwitted toddler’s treat made of entirely store-bought ingredients. A toddler’s treat which, I might add, involves zero actual baking. The nerve.

It’s been years since I’ve eaten dirt and worms. Back before I followed recipes and rules, I ran my own neighborhood summer camp. It was small—less than 20 kids—and it was filled with all the chaotic good you’d expect from four hours of homemade crafts and games supervised by one very bossy middle schooler.

I called it Kamp Kids. Original name, right? You can already tell I was destined for a career in marketing.

The last day of camp was special, as it should be. With my parents’ help, we dragged out a slip n’ slide and campers took turns careening down the slick plastic into each other, squealing at the speed and the chance to splash their friends. And to top it all off, the last day of camp was the day we unveiled our ultimate crowd-pleaser. Our pièce de résistance of summertime silliness.

Dirt-and-worms.

It's cheap, easy, and children go wild for it. Ideal for a young camp manager and the perfect way to cap off a successful week of popsicle stick picture frames, made-up songs, and entirely too many ridiculous rounds of, “I said a boom chicka boom!”

I certainly thought it was ideal. And I made the rules. I was the boss, my own boss. I decided there needed to be a neighborhood camp, so I made one. I drew posters, hired my friends to help, managed tuition, even learned to play “Kumbaya” on the guitar.

At Kamp Kids, I wasn’t a cog in the wheel. I was the whole damn wheel. A scrappy wheel—maybe a wagon wheel or a tricycle wheel. A spunky little wheel with missing spokes but perseverance and pluck for days. I wobbled and bumped down dirt roads and needed help to get up big hills. But just like the little engine, I thought I could, I thought I could.

Then somewhere along that road, I swapped dirt for pavement and self-determination for a steady paycheck. I decided that maybe I couldn’t, after all, but someone else could. And they could tell me what to do.

I came in from the summer sun and took my seat in a cubicle.

But you know what? I liked being the whole damn wheel, even a scrappy one. I liked being my own boss.

And you know what? Damnit if dirt-and-worms isn’t unbelievably delicious.

That divine blend of crunchy Oreo dust and creamy, half-melted vanilla ice cream; you slide your disposable spoon through like a sled down a hill. And every once in a while, you find a soft nub of too-sweet icing, like a nugget of gold in a syrupy stream. And those worms—half-frozen like the first snowmelt of spring. They’re a coloring book red. Red like a freshly painted barn, like a maraschino cherry in a Shirley Temple. You slurp the worms like spaghetti, and they wiggle in your mouth and get stuck in the dimples of your back teeth. You're left sticky all over and the dogs run up to you and lick your fingers, savoring the second-hand sweetness.

Fresh, hand-grated carrots can go to hell.

Maybe one day I’ll rip off my noise-cancelling headphones and blow this joint like a stream of bubbles on a summer day. I’ll shake the dust of this cubicle off my feet like I’m doing the hokey pokey and swap politeness for pranks. Maybe I won’t care what’s en vogue. I’ll run naked through the sprinklers. I’ll be my own boss. I'll guffaw loudly.

But for now, I’ll sit here and enjoy some dirt-and-worms.