DEARTH OF DUTY

       Joey called tonight (it's Saturday) to say that he has THREE "volunteers" coming in tomorrow to work off their "service hours." He had three today, too, and he said the kitchen was crowded. I could hear the angst in his voice. He was trying to imagine how to incorporate five people into such a tiny kitchen. It's just not feasible and probably not safe on a number of levels.
     I was happy to ease his mind and promise to stay home. He has his plan for mac 'n cheese casserole, and he's comfortable with that. Besides, he'll have three people to direct, and they will accomplish much of the work that he generally must do alone on Sunday afternoons. I'm happy for him!
       Of surprise too, for Joey at least, is that there are so many "volunteers" here in the dead of winter—during these extra-bitter-cold days. The truth is: crime and punishment don't have a season (that I know of), and these folks just happen to be piling in at the same time. Another possibility is that "the word" may have gotten out that our kitchen is a cool place to work off those punishment hours. I, personally, would prefer working in the kitchen to hanging garments at the Goodwill store or scrubbing graffiti off of buildings.
       Anyway… I'll be resting tomorrow, and sending happy thoughts out toward my people at the shelter. As always, I hope they don't miss me; I hope the children have better places to be at lunchtime on Sunday; and I will miss all of them—whoever they are on that day.

HOW YOU CAN TELL IF THEY LIKE IT

       ONE was outside when I arrived, standing with the smokers, enjoying the sunny day. He let me in and he unlocked the dining room doors for me, assuming Joey wasn't there yet. But Joey was. And Joey was as hyper as I've ever seen him. It was early, by our usual standards, but he was flying around the kitchen as if there were a state of emergency.

       We had planned eggs, grits, sausage, biscuits and fruit. "I'm making this new recipe for cheese grits," I said. "I got it from a friend yesterday."

       Joey was annoyed. "I'm making sausage," he asserted.

       "I know," I said. "And we planned grits and eggs…"

       He reiterated that he was making sausage, as he nervously put 70 patties on baking sheets and shoved them in the oven. That's when I had to slow him down and explain to him that our menu was simple, that I was on-board with it, and that I going to make the grits recipe and help him with everything.

       He calmed. "Oh, I thought you…" Well, he thought I was changing our plans, and for unknown reasons, he'd begun the morning awfully stressed. It wasn't long before he settled down and we began to enjoy our usual endeavors. The shelter is "at capacity," so there is a lot of pressure to serve enough food.

       Take this grits recipe, for example. It makes a 1-1/2 quart casserole. We made it "times ELEVEN." The recipe called for 1 cup of grits. We used 11. It called for two cups of water and two of milk—we used 11 times that. I didn't have the heart to strip the shelter of 11 times 1-1/2 cups of grated cheese, so I skimped on that a bit. Also, we used 22 eggs in the grits recipe. If you whip the eggs and add them to the cooked grits in a certain way, they blend in and give the dish body. Our cooked-up enormous pot of cheese grits filled two large aluminum serving pans which went into the oven for half an hour. While those cooked, Joey and I scrambled about 3 dozen eggs and baked 70 biscuits.

       NO, THE FRUIT ORDER WAS NOT FILLED.

       I set up an assembly line at the serving counter, and we let the pre-release select what they wanted, filling plates individually. It was easy(!), and they seemed pleased to be able to SAY what they wanted. Seconds flowed freely, compliments rang out often, and when the resident homeless came to lunch, the compliments and thanks kept pouring in. Every plate that I saw going to the trash can was empty.

     "Do you know how you can tell if they like the food, Miss Joy?" Joey asked. "They're talking!" And they were. The dining room was just abuzz with happy chatter.

       One fellow came to the counter and looked over the selections carefully before choosing only two items. "I have high cholesterol," he said.

       "Honey," I replied, "Everything here is high in cholesterol—and I have that too."

       "Well," he said, "Just give me some of everything."

       Joey says Miss Lillian doesn't pour bacon grease over the broccoli anymore because they don't have any. What a blessing!

       Two young women came in mid-morning to make the sack lunches. Joey had them make 50! They had such a good time that they said they want to come back after they've worked off their service hours and just work there for the fun of it. How many times have we heard that?

       So the sky is as BLUE as a sky can be, the cold rain is gone, everybody went out today with a full stomach and a smile. We have four resident children, but they were not at lunch. I saw Mr. Huggy bringing folks back from church as I was leaving.

       Joey said that next week he wants to make a macaroni/cheese/broccoli/ham casserole and serve fruit on the side, period. Sounds good… but I won't hold my breath on the fruit.

Cheese grits casserole, sausage & biscuits

DEAD OF WINTER

       It's 70° on this mid-January day, and I fully expected to have few residents at the shelter for lunch. No. We served about 50 meals. Our pre-release have raised the number considerably, and I've no idea why their population has suddenly increased there. I do know that preparing and serving lunch has become such a large task that I no longer have time to banter with my people, to get to know them, to establish any sort of relationships. Admittedly, it was always sad to hear that a favorite had returned to prison or to his old ways.

       We had a lovely young woman working off her service hours today. She prepared the dining room, mopped it, filled the cutlery containers, and occasionally disappeared to the back porch for what I assumed was a smoke. She's willing and helpful, but not self-starting. I asked her if she has children, and she said, "No! I'm waiting until I get married!"

       "Good girl!" I applauded her. "I've always said there are too many children in the world and not enough parents!" She agrees. I do admire that about her.

       Today Joey made "the soup." In fact, he had a huge pot already on the stove when I got there. In time, a few macaroni noodles burned on the bottom of the pot, and we put his soup into two pots and I added more food (because I KNOW that our biggest pot will not feed more than 35, and we were expecting more than 50.

       Joey said he would have fruit for today's meal, but by the time I got there, other workers had given the fruit out for snacks, and there was only one #10 can left. I gave each of the 50 diners 5 little chunks of fruit. It worked.

       Joey had boiled 40 eggs for me. I took my little Cuisinart processor, and in time, we had two platters of deviled eggs. Each diner got a bowl of soup (or two), deviled eggs, a bit of fruit, and crackers. There were no complaints and many requests for seconds. Today's soup was filled with large slices of broiled chicken breast, roast beef, sausages, broccoli and other vegetables. It was possibly the most hearty soup we've ever served.

       Only two children were at lunch—a boy about 11, and his sister who looks to be about 14. They were delighted with the Beanie toys I gave them, a pen, and some crayons. The little artist still lives there, but was spared Sunday lunch at the shelter. It's always wonderful when they have someplace else to go.

       On leaving, as I passed through the dining room, the face of a sweet young man turned toward me. "Thanks," he said. I laughed a little, and then I hope fiercely that he'd never think I would laugh at him. No, I laughed because the pleasure is surely all mine. It feels silly to be thanked for having such a fulfilling morning.

       Many residents were outside when I left—the pre-release smoking on their side of the front door, and the resident homeless on theirs. As I drove away, and no doubt because I know nothing about living on the streets, I was drawn to make note of the many folks in town who appear to have no place to go. Women. Men. Their sacks. There are many of them out there today. They are the ones who never "qualify" to live at the shelter—who cannot control that thing in them which will not be tamed.

       They make a utility bill look awfully appealing.

DE RIEN

       That's French for "nothing."
       Miss Lillian asked for a weekday off, so she's working Sundays (today and perhaps next Sunday).
       At first, I was down and out about having to miss MY Sunday at the shelter. But, you know, it's not about me. If the shelter residents can survive 6 months of "incarceration," I can certainly endure one or two Sundays away from them.
       Which reminds me: It has come to my attention that at least one reader doesn't understand this shelter's version of "homeless." Our homeless are "residential homeless." They are people who have no place to go... but who have qualified for this shelter's program. They can stay there for as long as 6 months, provided they find a job and a place to live in the meantime. The shelter helps them with these endeavors. I think most folks complete the program, but I don't have any real statistics on that. I do know that our pre-release prisoners face those same criteria, and I have seen some of them fall back into the deeper aspects of the system.
       Because there appears to be a Master Plan for all things... it turned out that I scarfed up NINETEEN pristine Beanie Babies today for $5 at a flea market! Had I been at the shelter, I would certainly not have had the energy to attend the market; so, someday when I return to the kitchen, I will have a greater bounty of fun to share with the children.
       Joey has not affirmed my position for next Sunday... so we will all have to wait and see. À bientôt—that's French for "see you soon."