BUGLING THE HOUNDS

       Cutie Gatekeeper moussed his hair for me today! He did the sides and the top—very short and just-right curly. I do adore that child.

       We have a number of new residents among our pre-release and our homeless, and I'll try to introduce you to some of them, but before I could meet them there was lunch to prepare. Doug had his dinner plans well underway, and his lunch plans were, "Joy, you think of something."

       I never mind hearing that! Within a short while I had a big pot of soup on, and Doug said we could serve ham and chicken salad with it. I mixed some odd cans of applesauce, apples, and pineapple in a large bowl, and added bananas from the huge stash in the refrigerator. Sadly, the bananas had to be picked through carefully and most of them discarded. We added cinnamon to the mix and it was all consumed, as was the soup and meat salad. There was just enough left for one or two plates. The soup received rave reviews—even from Doug, the cook!

       I was amused with Doug's follow-up story about last week's chicken pot pie. When Miss Lillian had arrived on Monday, word of the pot pie was still spreading through the shelter. At her first opportunity, she asked Doug, "How did you make that?" He never told her the winding tale, only his (final) biscuit ingredients and that he'd added more chicken. All's well that ends well.

       One of my favorite pre-release fellows is leaving this week. He'll be missed. All of the women pre-release have left, but sadly one went back to "the big house." I don't understand how a person with five state warrants out on them can slip through the cracks far enough to get to a shelter in the first place…

       Among the resident homeless, we have two interesting new fellows. One is a special-ed case, and I do wonder why he is there and not in a better equipped facility. The other came to lunch bearing the bruises of a recent skirmish and not appearing altogether sober. He probably won't be there next week.

       A while back I mentioned that we had three 400-pounders. We did. There was the couple with a child, and a woman (I thought). I served "her" many, many weeks, always cringing from the pains that her mass seemed to inflict on her. Last week I arrived at the kitchen to learn that "she" was in hospital with life-threatening cardio-vascular problems (duh), and  that she is a man! Whoa!

       This week, the news is that "he" is somewhat improved and is expected to be back at the shelter soon, "sucking mayonnaise from the condiment packettes." Ew.

       Again, both of my children were in attendance. My little girl's father strode to the lunch counter with a smile on his face, no cane, and no limping. It was miraculous! (No dieting either—if lunch was any indication.) But I was happy to see him feeling so well. The child was still in her pajamas, skipping gaily through the lunch room, showing a little old beggarly-looking man the boo-boo on her finger and telling him about a similar injury she'd had in kindergarten. I've never seen her so animated. I motioned her to the kitchen door where I offered her a choice of a green Beanie bear or one that looks like Winnie the Pooh—she chose the Pooh and dashed off to share her goodies with her adult friends.

       Whatever got into the girl had also infected the boy, as he too was undeniably cheerful and talkative. I called him next to the kitchen door for goodies, but having run out of lizards and creepy boy things, I wasn't feeling very optimistic about my offerings: A black & white gibbon monkey OR a very floppy, adorable speckled pup. He snatched the pup with a gleeful "yes!" and dashed away to show it off, his arm leaping the puppy across the room. Who knew?

       Almost as an afterthought, I had also given each child half of an empty paper towel roll. "It's a durt-de-dur," I told them. As the little girl left, I put my hollowed fists to my mouth and called after her, "Durt-de-durt-te-dur!"

       Doug and I put together 30-some sack lunches and sorted the gifted bakery bread that arrived around 12:30 (a Sunday ritual now). The dark breads cannot be served at our shelter because of poppy seeds and possible drug-test contamination. We froze some for Dean, and we froze a batch of large loaves to slice and heat for next Sunday's lunch.

       There was sweeping, organizing, and dishwashing to do—just the usual. I left with a right smart sore back and an enormous grin on my face. Several folks called to me in the parking lot, "Thanks for lunch!"

       Doug had already thanked me for all the help I was today. "Hey," I said, "I had a great time, and that's really all that matters!"

GOD BLESS THE CHILD

       It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood… I can't remember when a Sunday morning has been more uplifting—though the exact secret to that is a bit illusive.

       Doug was busy with dinner plans when I arrived. Lunch had been donated yesterday—Styrofoam meal containers with spaghetti and salad. All we had to do was take them out of the cooler and put them on the counter.

       …but for dinner, there was chicken pot pie in the making. Doug was thawing large bags of frozen pot pie ingredients. For the dough, he mixed up flour, milk and butter, which he poured over the top. He put two large pans of the dish in the ovens, and he put a huge pot of green beans on to boil. Applesauce will be served on the side.

       I found only a dozen sack lunches in the fridge, so I made 2 dozen more before the pre-release came to lunch. There were about a dozen people for that meal, and serving them was a no-brainer. Doug and I had a lot of time to catch up with news.

       Miss Lillian is back from vacation, and things are again looking skewed. Dean is not welcome in the kitchen (orders of the hierarchy), and it becomes more and more evident that he will not take over Joey's old position when Lillian retires in the fall. Maybe it's time for me to write the nasty letter that's been taking shape in my head.

       Among the dirt that Doug shared was the story of a homeless resident who came to the kitchen to get a sack lunch to take to his job. Very soon, he came back to the counter, THREW the sack at Doug, and it bounced off the counter. The man shouted that his chips were missing and his sandwiches were smashed. Doug looked in the bag. The sandwiches were  fine. Then he took a fresh lunch and gave it to the man saying, "If your sandwiches were smashed, it was only because you threw your lunch at me." Doug was working very hard to contain his true feelings.

       As soon as he could, he shared the story with Lillian. "What's his name?" she asked. The next time the man came to a meal, Lillian grabbed him by the shirt collar and yanked his face close to hers. "If you ever do that again—you'll be out of here." Doug is a tall, strong man, but Lillian is a powerful force to be reckoned with.

       The night crew is still ransacking the kitchen, but Lillian is supposed to get a handle on that this week. I look forward to hearing the report—the guy she'll be dealing with is formidable too—formidably lazy, and sadly second in command.

       I asked Doug if Lillian had missed the PBJ tub, and he said he'd told her the truth, "It slipped right through Joy's hands, she shouted, 'Damn, it broke!' I thought she'd fallen…" and Lillian just hooted with laughter. Works for me.

       Cutie Gatekeeper came often to the kitchen. He does hate sitting at the front desk, monitoring the coming and the going—it's a very confining and boring job. On the other hand, it's frustrating when a resident opens the doors to a stranger. So that issue has been batted around this week.

       About mid-way through lunch, I asked Doug for his biscuit topper recipe. I had seen a 10-pound sack of "plain" flour on the stove, so I figured he had a recipe… When he listed flour, milk, and butter as the ingredients, I said, "No leavening?"

       "No," he said. "It'll puff up."

       I really didn't want to contradict him, but somehow he got the idea that it might not puff up. We were in the pantry looking at the flour supply. When he realized his mistake, his precious face turned almost purple! He was angry!

       I assured him we could scrape off the gooey topper (which was fairly done by then) and replace it. So we did. I also suggested we add some chicken to the pies, as the pre-fab mix doesn't have enough meat. As it turned out, adding the meat improved the nutrition of the dish, and the fresh biscuit topper was fluffy and fine. We'll laugh about that for a long time.

       I was thrilled to see both my little girl and my little boy at lunch! The girl was the first to arrive at the counter. "Good morning!" I smiled. She just stared at me. The rims of her eyes are a bit red, and there's a little red mark on her face. One side of her father's face was crimped, as if he'd just been sleeping on it. I understand that "Mom" returned to town, but is not allowed to return to the shelter. The child was "away" during the day this week, so I guess she had something to do besides while away her time at the shelter.

       When I caught his eye, I motioned the boy to the kitchen door. I gave him some gum, a sucker, and a red lobster Beanie (my very last "boy type" critter). He was pleased.

       Then I asked the girl's father to send her to me. She had her choice of the world's cutest Beanie puppy or a blue Beanie bear. She chose the bear. I'm sure now that she has a thing for the bears. It was good to see that her face was not so sad anymore, but her eyes were still red, and there was that little mark on her face, and geeze, Louise!

       As I crossed the parking lot to my car, a few people bade me have a great day. The children were playing with two yard-long sticks. I tossed them my last tennis ball and told them to share. "We will!" they shouted.

       Isn't it great how children can assume the happy-life position no matter where we put them?

ANTICIPATION IS MAKING ME WAIT

      Last night I learned that "my little girl" had returned to the shelter. I raced to the toy closet to select two treasures from which to let her choose, knowing that seeing her again would be the high point of the day—after I had worked more than 2 hours preparing and serving lunch.

       In spite of my request last night, Cutie Gatekeeper did not spike his hair for me today, explaining that he'd slept until 10 minutes before having to report for work. Besides, it's raining, and no hairdo takes well to rain. He'll try again next week.

       He and I were the first to arrive in the dark kitchen. He doesn't know where all the light switches are either, but we tried a lot that didn't work. Pretty soon Doug arrived and we had light aplenty. Doug was in good spirits today. For lunch, we had 16 plates of leftovers from last night's dinner, but he didn't know what he was going to do about the 16 or 20 more plates that we'd need. I've been wanting to make my corned beef hash with poached eggs for a long time, so I suggested it, and Doug was in agreement. I browned the corned beef hash from a #10 can (in three batches), then spread it evenly on a large baking sheet. I made nests with the bottom of a cup, and cracked a raw egg into each one—about 20. Doug put the pan in the oven, and within 40 minutes, it was ready to serve.

       On the side, we got rid of a large pan of fruit cocktail, and a large pan of leftover rolls. As has become customary in the past 5 or 6 weeks, a man came to the back door with more large sacks of bread, so there will be rolls for dinner tonight too.

       It was interesting to watch the pre-release approach the counter. They recognized the BBQ leftovers from last night, but the hash was almost an unknown. When I told them that I'd "made it myself" and that I first saw it made in a fancy restaurant, they decided they could try it. Some asked for seconds. Some gave great reviews. Cutie Gatekeeper ate two plates. So I'm calling it good.

       The stash of lunch sacks was so depleted that I made up 30 during my 3 hours there. Miss Lillian has been on vacation for 3 weeks, but returns tomorrow, so Doug wanted everything to be in perfect order for her reentry. I asked him if anybody had noticed the missing PB&J tub, wondering what Lillian would think... and Doug said one person had asked about it last week. "I said, 'We don't have that anymore,'" he explained. What a guy!

       Our homeless residents were an extra sad-looking group today. They look homeless, though there was one man wearing an exceptionally pleasing cologne, and I complimented it. On the whole, they were a pretty rag-tag group. Of course, she was there… and I had waited so long to see her. "I missed you!" I told her. She had on a little pair of play high-heel shoes—what a beautiful child.

       Her granddad (now hear this) is not her granddad. And her grandmother is not her grandmother. They are, as I originally assumed, her parents, though the woman is said to be the only one who is genetically connected to the child. Her daddy has just "always been with her." It doesn't take genetics to make a good daddy—just being there with love—so apparently he qualifies. He did not have a good week, and he doesn't feel well today, but he did take the BBQ plate with two sandwiches, so I'm guessing his appetite is okay.

       Anyway, I offered the child her choice of toys, and she selected a patriotic Beanie bear with sit-down legs and extra-soft fur. I also had a tiny coloring kit for her, and I asked her, "What are you doing this summer?"

       She said she was going to the Boys & Girls Club, but now she can't because of her ear (swimmer's ear?). So I must imagine that she is stuck there at the shelter all day, every day. I'll be looking into activities for her this week, but I'm not holding my breath. She'd need transportation and supervision—all those things that kids with abundance can take for granted.

       There were no other children present for lunch, though the little boy in still in residence.

       Doug said that Mr. Huggy came by yesterday to say his duties "overseeing" Doug were ending, as Miss Lillian was returning. If you've been paying close attention, you'll be laughing right about now.

       The nightly kitchen raids are ongoing, but Doug hopes Lillian's return will help with those. Heaven knows how it will pan out when Lillian retires for good, in the fall.

       Dean was again not there for the Sunday meals, but he's been a steady hand through the week. And there's an old, old volunteer who appeared one day recently. She marched into the kitchen, introduced herself to Doug, and said, "You'll have to get your stuff off this work table. I'll be needing it." Come to think of it, I know that feeling :)

TMI!

      Cutie Gatekeeper let me in. He's got his short strawberry hair all spiked up in the middle, and Honey, that is one cute kid! I told him so too.

       Doug was alone in the kitchen. I got a very solemn, "Hello," in response to my cheerful greeting. You know, I don't like to manipulate people in a premeditated fashion, but this situation called for some levity; after all, we were fixin' to spend the better part of 3 hours together. So I made haste in asking him questions about himself… and within a minute, he was perky and engaged. He reported on his family, today's food prep and the pre-release.

       "I've been learning lots of stuff about those guys during the week," he announced. "That guy who was just in here for a cup of coffee?"

       "Uh huh."

       "Guess what he's in for? He's a hit man! Well, actually, he tried to hire a hit man."

       Another robbed a bank, and another was a good enough embezzler to still have an expensive car. All of the above are Caucasian. Our African American pre-release are much less hazardous with their simple drug violations.

       The stash of clean aprons was depleted, so I took the dirties, along with our cleaning towels, to the laundry room and ran a load. Things aren't as well-ordered as they were this time last year. I even did some sweeping. Mr. Huggy had come in this week saying he was told Doug needed help, but it only throws Doug behind when he must stop and deal with the Hugs. Major consternation! On top of that, the night crew is still raiding the kitchen for "snack time," leaving a lot of mess on the floor, serving foods that have been prepared for the next day, and generally destroying Doug's hard work. He seems reticent to pitch a fit about it, but I keep encouraging him to.

       Also, Lanyard Guy has been letting street folks come to the dining room to be fed. Doug had to remind him to NOT do that. "You don't know those people! They could come in here with weapons and hurt all of us!" Lanyard Guy is just too totally focused on his little sign-out sheet of pre-release. In fact, he cannot accurately tell me on Saturday evenings how many children live there because he only watches the pre-release. He's there; he's letting people come in and go out; but, apparently his focus is awfully limited.

       Just FYI: Leslie doesn't come there anymore. We don't know why, but we miss her. Even the diners miss her.

       For lunch we served four #10 cans of black-eye peas, death-in-a-tub chicken salad, garlic bread, two #10 cans of fruit cocktail, and orange slices. We had a big crowd; I was too busy to count them.

       The PBJ container was out of sack lunches for the street folks, so I made up 25 of those, but not before first dropping the half-gallon tub of PB&J on the pantry floor. I dropped it once before, when I was working with Dean, but there was no harm done. Today, the tub hit the tile, popped open, splatted its mix on the floor, and cracked! It made an impressive noise which, when mingled with my loud "Damn!" brought Doug running and grasping his heart. He thought I had fallen! The poor boy whined for quite awhile about the fright. Nothing I could do but clean it up and start over. But it does make me wonder how I could have dropped that same tub twice, when this time I carefully used both hands.

       The little boy came to lunch. He was very happy with a lizard that he chose, some gum & candies, and a bottle of bubbles. A man sitting next to the child said he also wanted a toy, and I had to back peddle my way out of a corner with, "What would I tell the next child if I don't have a toy for him because a man with a beard got it?"

       My little girl's grandfather came to lunch, and I asked after the child. He said she was in another town with a relative and under DSS supervision. As I was leaving, I met the man in the foyer and heard him telling someone that the child was coming back this afternoon. So I stopped to engage him about her. The relatives "had a fight," and Granddad thinks they're bringing the child back today—he isn't sure. Grandmother is a thousand miles away, camping in the woods with her boyfriend. That's gotta be rough when you weigh 400 pounds. Anyway, I left an adorable monkey in a blue-striped t-shirt with Granddad, to give the child when he sees her. He's still talking about asking for custody (when his disability comes through), so I threw out some thoughts for him about open adoptions, his health issues, and her impending teen years.

       He lit a cigarette and pressed on his lower abdomen, "Oh! Those beans!" I'm thinking it wasn't the bitty bowl of black-eyes, but more likely the two PBJs he made for himself to top off his lunch. I feel full just thinking about it.

       Doug was in good spirits when I left. We had ourselves a fine time, got a lot of work done, and look forward to next week. In the meantime, I'll be attending to the big jelly stain on my shirt. Aprons are good—not magic.