"One" flipped the switch to let me in this morning. "He's not here," he said, from behind his little office window. "We don't know where he is, but I'll let you in."
He unlocked the kitchen and we stood there feeling helpless for a few minutes. Then I found some light switches, and brought the walls to life. No C&W music, no warm oven, no Joey. No lunch, either.
The last time I found myself alone on a Sunday morning, Joey was trekking through the snow, and I dug through the big cooler for a makeshift lunch. When he finally arrived, he was quick to tell me I was heating up dinner.
It happened much the same today. I spent about an hour dashing between the cooler, the freezer, and the pantry—desperately trying to formulate "lunch" for 45 people. My first decision was to make "soup" from the box of canned goods in the stockroom. A few of the cans had pop tops; the rest remained between heaven and hell, as I tried to ply that !@#$^#!% can opener (we notice nobody has offered to even help us get a new one)... so I was obliged to abandon the soup idea.
I selected frozen chicken patties, buns, and coleslaw. Then I "turned on" the deep fryer—at least I thought I was turning it on (turns out that 250° is not enough). Didn't matter.
When Joey finally came through the door (poor child has two immediate family in hospital and responsibility for two of their children), he was quick to appreciate me and to tell me that he already had lunch plans and dinner plans—neither of which was on the agenda I had created.
We put the chicken back in the freezer, and Joey put his special casserole in the oven (I had seen that casserole but assumed it was for the evening meal). Then Joey and I scurried around to pull together some of his plans and some of mine in a short one hour. "I love you, Miss Joy!" he said. "I know you've always got my back."
…well… I don't mind, but what if I just didn't turn up one Sunday?
Because I had compromised the seals on numerous canned goods, Joey opened the cans for me, and I made a soup. This soup—I gotta tell you about this soup—has been on my to-do list for months! The canned-goods box was always full of cans of refried beans (what does one do with refried beans in a shelter kitchen?). Also, there were cans of chili, black beans, tomatoes, and corn. I put about a dozen cans of food in one of the giant pots, along with about a quart of water.
When it was done, we had enough "soup" to feed both groups! I was fairly certain we'd have a lot of it left over. No. That soup made an enormous hit, and seconds flowed freely. "Miss Joy," they said, "that soup was delicious!" Blame it on the mystery cans—trust me—there was no magic recipe in that pot.
While our homeless were having lunch and I was still working on the 25 sack lunches, a young woman came into the kitchen. She had very long hair (not pinned up or "kitchenfied" and kept her purse slung over her shoulder as she fixed herself a drink, took a plate of salad, ate it, tossed the plate in my trash can, found herself a few snacks, and chatted it up with Joey. My brain was screaming "Health Department!" but it is Joey's kitchen.
After she left, I asked him, "Who was that?" and he explained that she is supposed to come to the kitchen to work off her community-service hours, but she only comes around to get a little food now and then. I told Joey how I had wanted to throw the trollop out, and he said I was more than welcomed to do that! Of course, she won't come back on my watch, and I won't get an opportunity to satisfy my righteousness…
Well… needless to say, serving lunch was done on the fly but turned out well. One came several times to the kitchen, as if he thought we needed moral support—maybe we did. And near the end of my shift, the social worker from upstairs wandered in, "I haven't seen you in a long time!"
"I was gone 3 months," I said. "Where were you?" Then he helped himself to a bowl of the soup, and seconds. Who would have ever thought that good soup could come out of refried beans?
Before I could escape, Joey was "helping me plan" next Sunday's lunch. "I think we should have brunch next Sunday," he said. The ultimate question was what do we serve since we cannot serve peach daiquiris? Eventually Joey decided that I should bring deviled eggs, and he sent me home with 5 dozen eggs for next week, which led, of course, to a brief lesson on "What is 2 times 4? And what is 2 times 6? And what other words do we use for 6? …and 12?"
He just lights up so when something like "a half dozen" slides into home base. If I could teach that child every day, I probably wouldn't need all the drugs and alcohol that One says I don't use.
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