I'M NO ANGEL

 …but I've spread my wings a bit. —Mae West

      A thoughtful smoker opened the outer door for me and my sack of toys, my cutting board, knife, 10 frozen pie shells, and two bags of oranges… but today's gatekeeper, Mr. Fred, was not at his window, and I was obliged to phone him. While I waited in the inside foyer, I took a toy from my sack and gave it to the toddler who was there with her parents and infant sister… sitting on the plastic benches… staying out of the cold… no place to go… just like last Sunday.
       Mr. Fred let me in, but then I had to wait interminably for Joey to unlock the dining room door. All of this, you understand, because I was weighed down with heavy sacks.
       Joey had put a large chunk of frozen sausage in the oven to thaw. He was planning to fry it for our quiches. So I began my preparations by cutting up the oranges. If I cut them into thirds, there would be enough for everyone to have some. As the sausage thawed and warmed, Joey mentioned the aroma. I, too, had sensed something amiss. That sausage was sour. I asked him how old it was, and he said it had been in the freezer for a little minute. Then he changed his mind and said it had probably been in there for a minute. (In Joey's world, the term "little minute" means a short but noteworthy period of time, and a "minute" means a fairly long time.) We threw out the sausage.
      From the fridge, I took 60 eggs, a carton of sour cream, and yellow & white cheeses. Joey finally remembered he had some bacon, and he put it in the deep fryer. In time, I had mixed, whipped, sprinkled, stirred and poured out 10 quiches: 2 for vegetarians, and the rest with bacon on the bottom. The chemist in me added parsley flakes and pepper, with ground nutmeg on top.
       Joey couldn't get any fruit or broccoli, but I had taken the oranges, and he had some bags of cole slaw. I dressed the slaw, and when it ran out, we opened bags of salad.
       The pre-release numbered about 21 today! Joey said they were grumbling about not getting enough to eat before their meals were even half finished. So I took a quiche and a knife to the serving counter, "I'm here to cut extra quiche for anybody who wants it," I announced. There was an immediate scraping of chairs and a line of takers at the counter.
       When the homeless arrived, they filled the dining room, and they promptly rejected the quiche. Remember: this is not the same group of homeless that we had on previous quiche days. This group snatched up all of Joey's plates of leftovers—pizza, BBQ, meatballs… and a whole pan of donated lasagna. It soon looked like the quiches might go wanting, but as the lunch hour passed, requests for quiche began to come in, and in time, all but half a quiche were gone. Many people stopped to say thanks for the meal, and especially the quiche, proving once again that you cannot read a menu until the belching is over.
       Our homeless family (from the other shelter where one cannot stay in daytime) was again invited to have lunch in our dining room. Today, it seemed like they felt more entitled than blessed… and I was, admittedly, annoyed when the big, fat mom asked for quiche (after finishing her lasagna plate), but wouldn't take a slice with bacon in it because she doesn't eat pork…
       The bad angel on my left shoulder said, "Honey, snatch that woman bald and remind her that she is homeless and spitting out babies right and left!"
       The good angel put her hand over my mouth and came up with a slice of cheese quiche.
       Our children numbered 4, and all seemed to enjoy the goodies I gave them. One of the kids, a girl about 12, was anxious for me to not forget the little toddler, but I assured her the toddler got a toy earlier. It's sweet how kids look out for each other—it's their innocence.
       Joey's planning to get back to school next month and "knock it out," as he says. It would be a shame to see him not finish, after working on it for 2-1/2 years. I promised to help him with the math, and we started today with those multiplication tables which he has always rejected. He cut up a sheet cake, and I asked him how many pieces he had. Pointing to each piece, he counted, 1, 2, 3, 4… and I said, "Wait." Then I counted the pieces on the long end of the pan and the pieces on the short end—6 and 4. "What's 6 times 4?"
       He had no clue. I reminded him of the multiplication tables, "1 times 2, 2 times 2…" that I had TOLD him to learn long ago! It's time. It is surely time—because the math part of his GED is upon him. Maybe I can tutor some of our baby bearers as well… 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 = homeless and without pork. Maybe I'm being too hard on them. I think one of my angels has left the building…