Around 15 years ago, my sisters and I took a cooking class together. All three of us are relatively good cooks but we decided on a basic knife skills class to improve our cutting proficiency. (My older sister’s then ten-year old son was disappointed that “knife skills” didn’t mean that we’d enrolled in a self-defense class. I think he was hoping we’d return as full-fledged ninjas.)

There were just six students in the class. The other three were older than us—a couple and another woman. My sisters and I were surprised to see that these AARP card-carrying adults had almost no idea how to cut peppers and onions. We assumed that they had recently let their personal chefs go, forcing them to finally learn to cook. To protect their identities, I will call them Betty and Bob (the couple) and Sylvia.

Before we officially started the class, we sat down at a table and ate a little Danish for a snack. Bob took one bite and pronounced it “too sweet.” I finished mine in three bites. Later in the class, we were told to salt the salsa we were making. All three of our classmates declared their aversion to salt in unison. “You’ve got to watch that high blood pressure,” they all said. No sweets and low salt?  I can’t wait to turn sixty!

Our instructor (Let’s call her Theresa—not so much to protect her identity but because I can’t remember her name. She was the only one not wearing a nametag) was full of not-so-helpful sayings: “A clean apron equals a good cook” and “Sharing means caring.” Her favorite thing to say was “Follow through, Betty.” Poor Betty was the least capable student in our class. She seemed woefully unsure of herself in the kitchen. She kept her purse on her shoulder during most of the lesson. I think it was so that she could get to her tissues during the teary, onion-chopping part. Theresa was by her side most of the class, critiquing her techniques and reminding her how to place the vegetable on the board correctly.

Theresa didn’t make it over to our side of the counter very often. When she did and I felt her watchful gaze over my shoulder, I found myself chopping more precisely. Nevertheless, she would pass by me and my older sister Becky and then on to our younger sister—the left-handed artist. Theresa couldn’t spout out enough praise for Carrie. “Perfect,” she would say with barely contained admiration. Sure, Carrie can do some great chopping, but where was my “perfect”? My one consolation was that Becky didn’t get much love either.

I was surprised to realize that a class of six adults wasn’t much different than an elementary class of twenty-five. You have your lower-achievers who require the majority of the teacher’s attention, higher-achievers who are inwardly motivated to perfection, and average students who do what’s needed to get by but who wouldn’t mind a little praise or at least a Skittle from the candy jar. Come on, Theresa!

Teachers are some of my very favorite people in the world. To be able to look at a classroom of humans, take in their varying levels of strengths and weaknesses, factoring in who might be hungry or sad or worried, then start the hard but rewarding work of instructing them, is a miracle which deserves a paycheck comparable to what a NBA All-Star makes.

But you don’t have to be a teacher to understand that we all lie somewhere within a wide spectrum of abilities. Some are natural students who won’t struggle with school and some will hit roadblock after roadblock both as kids and as adults. Instead of resigning these kids to a life of failure, these teacher superstars regard those school years as a time of promise and possibility. Let’s face it, all of us could use some improvement in one part of our lives or another. Just look at Betty. With the personalized help she received on that Sunday afternoon, she’s probably been chopping like a pro ever since.