WHERE'S THE SOUP?

       Change. Without a bit of shaking up, I guess things would be too boring to bear, so today we were "shook up."

       "Crusty Old Gal" was keeping the gate. I haven't seen that woman in months! She's not that crusty—especially if there is food in the offing, and she does peruse the kitchen often, nibbling, snacking, leaning toward the stove for a glimpse of dinner. I should probably re-dub her as "Jolly Plump Lady."

       Anyway, yesterday word came down (from ?) that the metal curtain between the kitchen and dining room would remain closed except during mealtimes. No coffee breaks. No gab fests. Nothing. Heck, even the dining room lights were off. For a minute, I thought Doug might be late again, but he was in the kitchen counting out slices of soy meatloaf for the dinner meal. And he was excited to show me that we had JUST received enough donations to feed lunch two times over, and more. A newly opened grocery had brought dozens of pre-packaged salads (with meats and cheeses in them), a half dozen 13-gallon plastic bags of deli breads, three or four wooden crates of strawberries, as many grapes, and a 13-gallon bag of fresh bananas. We could have fed four times as many people as live at our shelter.

       Sadly, all of those foods are perishable. I picked through the strawberries (about half good), sliced and washed them, did the same with the grapes (all good), and then the bananas, making an enormous bowl of fruit salad. It was eaten like there was no tomorrow. They don't know it yet, but they can have that again tomorrow and the next day… if somebody will take the time to prepare it.

       We put the salads on the counter, let folks choose, handed out yummy pita breads, and all-you-can-eat fruit bowls. There was great interest in the fare, and I was most surprised to hear, from time to time, "Where is the soup?"

       The little girls and their mother were the first to come to the 12:00 meal. They took their time eyeing the foods, one child reaching eagerly for a bowl of fruit. Her mother snapped hatefully at the child, "Don't TOUCH anything!" I introduced our vast selection of salads, but the mother stuck up her nose and said, "They don't eat those foods." That would include lettuce, cheeses, chicken, tomatoes… To my surprise, she did allow the girls to have a bowl of fruit. Some minutes after they were seated, I noticed they had little cups of microwavable macaroni & cheese. Doug says they often have Ramen noodles. This is poor nutrition at its best, and it was all I could do to not hint to that young (pregnant) woman that Social Services might take an interest in her children's deprivation.

       Of course, I gave the girls some toys and gum, but they never even looked up at me. Mom had them totally cowed. Doug says this is daily fare with that family. You know, at some point (soon), this mother will be obliged to give birth, and I do wonder what will become of the girls during that interim.

       "My boy" was not at lunch, but his buddy was. I gave him the goodies I'd taken, and his mother was so excited to see a Frisbee, "We're going to the park this afternoon!" Later, I asked him if his yo-yo string was still good, and he said it wasn't working right—just hitting bottom and spinning. He brought it to me. I wound it up and gave it a good yo-yo workout.

       "Your string is good," I told him. "Wind it tightly, and yo-yo like you're in charge—put some muscle into it." He caught on quickly, and left happy.

       A woman then came to the counter to tell me that "my boy" had gone out to lunch with his dad today, that the boys were best buddies, and that if I had something to give the missing child, she'd pass it on to him. She simply couldn't stand the thought of one boy returning from an outing to see that he'd missed the Frisbee. It was my pleasure to entrust my boy's goodies to that woman. The reality is: They are all homeless, they are mostly alone, but they live in the same home, and they are family.

       Today was an opportunity for me to sift through the ups and downs, to stand back and observe, and to appreciate what I have, as well as what I don't have. Sometimes, what we don't have is the best thing that we have.

I AM HUNGRY

      I wore a little jacket this morning, and as I greeted one of the pre-release sitting outside, I noticed that he was hugging his arms. Before I realized he might not have any, I had brightly said, "You need some sleeves on!" Well… he probably has some, but I'll be more careful in the future.

       Our gatekeeper today was Les—a strapping, tall, dark, handsome fellow whose name I've heard many times—we'd just never had an opportunity to meet. He's not known for his outstanding work ethic, but he gets the job done, and he's quite pleasant. After introductions, he said, "Doug's not here. He's having car trouble."

       So you know, I've faced a cold, dark kitchen before, and it doesn't scare me, but I was surely thinking Doug would pop through the door within 15 minutes. No.

       I found three leftover plates in the cooler and put those in the warmer. Then I checked the mystery box, assuming that a big pot of soup was a no-brainer. That box had not changed by one can since last Sunday. No, again.

       However, there was a large shipment of corned beef hash on a shelf, and I did not hesitate to dictate the lunch menu: corned beef hash with poached eggs, fruit cocktail, and fresh squash. Yes, there was another crate of fresh squash, and much of it was already rotten. It wasn't rotten when it had been donated, you understand.

       Just to get the adjectives out of the way, ALL of the pots, frying pans, and aluminum baking pans were huge, and some quite heavy. I opened a #10 can of hash, put a frying pan on the stove, and began the "browning" process. Then I cut up some squash and onion, and put those on to simmer. I was an hour into lunch prep when Doug came sliding through the door, just as jumpy as a cat. He was late, his nerves were fried, and nothing would calm him down before he'd begun dinner prep.

       Still, he stopped often to help me. He put on another frying pan, opened the second can of hash, dug some out for me, and added more squash to my pot. Then he found some biscuits in the cooler and put those in an oven to warm. About 40 minutes before serving time, I had two aluminum pans of hash ready for the oven, their raw eggs dotted throughout in the little nests I made with a catsup bottle.

       We had 30 minutes to spare, but 20 of those went into filling plates. The pre-release had been hanging around since shortly after I got there, and they'd had some rowdy conversation about sports figures—greatest, best, gonna win for sure… And they couldn't wait for lunch. I don't know if it was the hash or the squash that called to them most, but they surely enjoyed their meal, and many asked for more. One fellow forthrightly said, "I don't eat no raw eggs!"

       "It's cooked," I said, poking my gloved finger into the hard yellow of his egg. "It's like a boiled egg."

       "Oh," he said, "if you can touch it like that, it's done!" And he took it.

       That group was large today because they're on lock-down for some infraction that Doug tried to tell me about, but I was too busy to hear it. Darn. Anyway, they were a jolly bunch.

       The "residents" were in good spirits too. It was the food. Joey's "how you can tell if they like the food" is definitely a truth that doesn't waver.

       Both of my boys were there. Well into that lunch period, the girls and their mother arrived. They came solemnly to the counter. The mother scowled at ALL of the foods, took her girls, and walked out. As the last child was passing through the door, she heard me tell Doug, "They'll miss their toys."

       Within minutes, the troop was back in the dining room with their little boxes of prefab food. Doug said, "I don't know if you've noticed," but those kids haven't taken their eyes off of you." Yes, I suspected as much.

       So I took four baggies of goodies to the dining room, stopping first at the boys' table and letting them choose the colors of Play-Doh they liked best. Those girls could take what was left. The boys were eccstatic! I wouldn't have thought that 10-year-old boys would be so happy to have Play-Doh, much less choose irridescent pink and orange.

       At another table was a tiny older woman scarfing down her lunch (not unusual), but sitting as far back from the table as possible. This poor soul IS "the bag lady." I cannot give you a better description of her. And it's very sad, but Doug and I were wont to believe that our bag lady refused to sit any closer to her plate than necessary because there was a person of color in the next seat… a tall, well-groomed, older fellow who would not stand out at my personal table. Isn't it telling, where we place our social requirements?

       Doug tells me that our she man, believe it or not, still comes to the shelter for sack lunches. Last I heard, she was leaving to live in a hotel with her husband. The husband took her jewelry, pawned it, gave the money to another woman, and took off. So this poor soul is still "on the streets," and with a lot less opportunity than before.

       Near the end of lunchtime, the newer of the boys came to the counter. Doug told me that I was wanted at the counter. I approached the child asking, "What is it, Sweetheart?"

       Now don't get tearful… but he looked up at me with the dearest little face, dark, sincere eyes, and said, "Thank you."

       Before I left, I culled out the rotten squash, washed the remainder, sacked some to bring home, and left enough to feed the whole shelter—if anybody wants to cook it…

       I'll close with the beginning of my day: I didn't sleep well last night; it was a night of odd dreams; I got up feeling sorry for myself and certain that 2 hours would be my limit at the shelter today. After 3 hours, I left only because my back was screaming at me to get out—but I didn't want to go. When I am not there, I am hungry.

PUFFER BALLS

       Today, the children got puffer balls. I know what they are called only because I Googled them; but, for $1 at Wal-Mart, you can buy a bunch of fun in a puffer ball. They come in ball shapes, animal shapes—you name it. When they hit a hard surface, a little ball inside them blinks brightly in multiple colors.
       We have a new gatekeeper, Rory. She's got sheared black hair and eyes to match. What a princess. I didn't get to speak with her, except for the basic introductions, but it was obvious that the pre-release are enjoying the change of scenery.
       Doug was in a snit when I found him rummaging and grumbling in the big cooler. "Bad day?" I asked.
       "It's a great day!" he said. "I just need to figure out what's for dinner, and I'll be fine!" Within 5 minutes he had settled on the dinner menu, and he was so fine after that! I do enjoy that fellow!
       Yes, I was expected to make the soup, and we had the "tub chicken" as a side, as well as potato salad and fruit. Today's soup was not unlike all the others in that it was different. There was no plethora of assorted canned goods for the creation. To my delight, though, there was plenty of canned chicken, and as always lots of tomato sauce. Once I added the one can of corn, the one can of green beans, four potatoes I saved from the cooler, a cup of chopped broccoli, a cup of elbow macaroni, and a cup of pintos I found in the cooler, it became the perfect soup—topped with a few fancy croutons. Doug ate two bowlfuls before we'd finished feeding the first group!
       We lost another pre-release last week. As always, it was a fellow I admired—a very talented artist! He had earned a visit to his home, and by the time all was said and done, he'd drunk himself to a fare-thee-well, broken his probation, and been returned to the big house. Doggone it!
       Again, there were plenty of helping hands from that group, cleaning and mopping for Doug. Nice bunch of folks—but one or two will stray from time to time.
       Not long before lunch, a tiny older woman came in and asked if she could get a cup of coffee. I said, "Certainly! Just don't take it out of the dining room."
       "Oh, I won't," she promised.
       Five minutes later Doug was asking, "Did that woman take coffee out of here again??!"
       I looked around, and the woman was gone. Obviously, I am a poor monitor! The good news is that this resident will be moving out on Thursday. The bad news is that she must leave because her time is up, and she hasn't made any effort to become independent.
       The homeless were more upbeat than recent Sundays. Too, their numbers were much smaller than lately. The little girls came in as soon as we opened the doors for their group. They and their mother looked at the plates we were offering, turned up their noses, and took nothing. The mother took the girls to a table where she removed foods from a backpack. They sat and ate. Later, she came to the counter for something unrelated, and told me her girls were "really picky eaters." What is SHE? Anyway, they got their puffer-ball toys, gum, candy, and a bottle of bubbles. Again, they showed no emotion.
       "My boy" was not at lunch today, but his buddy was, so I gave that child a puffer ball, gum, candy and bubbles, and left the same for "my boy" with the other child's mother. She was most appreciative. Oh, and you'll love this: When I pulled into the parking lot this morning, the maple tree in front of my car was decked out with "fort" stuff—big sticks, little sticks, a bottle of water nestled into the fork in two branches. Sadly, by the time I left, it had all been cleaned up. Hopefully, the boys can rebuild.
       Last week, I took some pictures of the soup and the squash, but I forgot to share them—so here they are.
       The Bureau of Prisons continues to behave irrationally—sniping at folks one hour, and sucking up to them the next. It's very much a crap shoot as to who might be working there from one week to the next. And (unrelated) Mr. Huggy is still around. I had opportunity to avoid a hug from him last week. Doug says, "He gives me the creeps." No kidding! This week, The Hugs was late coming to lunch because he'd taken one of the women residents to church—just one. Time was, that man would load up a van of churchgoers—but times have changed.

YOU GOT A DUNCAN!

       Five souls were enjoying the outdoor benches when I arrived. Coming out of my shell seems to be complete because I couldn't hold back a cheerful, "Good morning!" Five bright greetings came back. I am no longer the reticent Sunday Lady shuffling in with her sacks, embarrassed to own a car. What a relief to be "out."
       Ken motioned to a pre-release to let me into the inner sanctum. The man smiled and acknowledged that he knew letting me in would lead to his lunch. Those guys are always hungry. Maybe it's the boredom.
       Doug was busy making 100 PBJs. After catching up with our news, he said Miss Lillian had told him that I like to cook (no secret), so he had decided that Sundays could just be mine—and he would use the extra time for other things. There's never a dearth of other things to do.
       With Ken's permission, Doug let a group of pre-release come to the dining room for coffee before lunch. It's against the rules to allow that, and as I told you last week, the Bureau of Prisons frowns on any show of kindness to prisoners. HOWEVER, before those men left, they had wiped down the tables, swept the dining room, and moped the long hallway from the front desk. They did it for Doug—because he's kind to them. The government will never understand the rules of life, so one must just do what one can, and hope for mercy.
       The guys wanted to know what we were making for lunch, and I told them soup and squash. I heard, "I don't like squash," and "Fried?" and "Aw," and "I love squash, but I wouldn't eat it as a kid." And I said, "Me either—it's called squash—duh!" Sweet fellows, and no scary ones right now…
        I made about two gallons of "the soup," and it was good, tho no two pots are alike. In the cooler, Doug found some nearly dead potatoes, and I saved what I could for the soup. He also showed me three big cartons of fresh summer squash. You long-time readers know what happens to fresh vegetables in that cooler—mold. So I cut up as many as I had time for, added the not-rotten half of an union, a whole stick of butter, salt & pepper. There were many remarks of delight at some "real home-style food," and many asked for seconds. Of course, a few "don't eat squash." They got peaches. We added some of that "death-in-a-tub" chicken salad and crackers. Lunch was very good, and quite colorful. Presentation is everything.
       Among the homeless residents is a young man who has never yet eaten a lunch I've served. He comes to the counter every Sunday and asks for a sack lunch. Because the fellow has "issues," Doug gets his shorts in a wad when the guy comes in, but I don't. (Admittedly, I see him only on Sunday.) Today, when the fellow asked for a sack lunch, I said of course he could have one, "but I just made this fresh soup, and it's really good!" The boy looked a bit trapped.
       "I had some traumatic experiences with food in my childhood," he said apologetically.
       I handed him the sack lunch, "I understand that completely—I do."
       We all have issues. "But you could try the soup, with your sack lunch," I coaxed. He wanted to know what was in it. I told him. Still, he declined, and I let him own those issues with no guilt.
       About 15 minutes later, the fellow came to the counter. "I'd like to try just a little bit of the soup," he said. I put about 3 tablespoons of it in a bowl. "Here's a taste," I said. Surprisingly, he looked a bit disappointed, but the last thing I wanted to do was make him feel pressured. Ten minutes later he came back for a whole bowl. And, heck, I didn't get a chance to share that event with Doug! Maybe I'll remember to tell him next week.
       So… those two little girls came to lunch today! Their mom is pregnant. All three of them had long faces, ate quickly, and left. I did have time to take them Beanies & gum. Their eyes got so wide when they saw the goodies! They took them hesitantly. Then Mom reminded them to say thank-you. Of course, their eyes had said it all. I see far too many sour-faced women with sad children.
       Well into the lunch half hour, my boy came striding up to the counter, "We have another one!" he said cheerfully. He had come expressly to tell me this wonderful news, and he was smiling. I was tipped off yesterday about "a second 10-yr-old boy," so I had yo-yos for each of them. One yo-yo lights up (I got it at a conference), and the other was newly purchased for today—a Duncan from Wal-Mart. Naturally, I gave the one that lights up to "my boy," and the Duncan to the new boy whose mother quickly announced, "You got a Duncan!"
       Surely that will make up for the fact that the Duncan does not light up. I told the boys to let me know if they break a string, and I will bring them a new one. I ordered a 5-pack of cotton Duncan yo-yo strings last week from Amazon—with shipping, $9! Five strings! Well… maybe I should order a gross next time. (Aside: "My boy" lives there with his dad; the other boy lives there with his mom, and yes, my television-serial mindset is on a roll.)
       Well… it was great. It was just great. Back's killing me, hands are sore, ankles are puffy, and I'll skip off to do it all again next week—God willing.
     

WIDE-EYED & WARY

        Tipped off that only Miss Lillian and I would be serving lunch, I stepped cautiously into the inner sanctum this morning, not knowing who'd be keeping the gate. The gatekeeper was Ken. He's never been a Sunday regular, but we'd met. He allayed some of my apprehension with, "It's good to see you again!" One down.

       Lillian had enlisted a fellow to clean the dining room floors for her, and she was busy with dinner prep. Lunch was a large pan of spaghetti that she had warming in the oven. I filled a bowl with fruit, she heated rolls, and we called it lunch.

       We needed to fill the PBJ tub, so I put together 52 PBJ sandwiches and sacked 26 lunches. That took about an hour. Then it was time to fill plates for our diners. The pre-release were in good spirits today and ate well, tho Lillian is very stingy with the food. It's a bit frustrating to have 10 meals left over, after denying seconds to a number of folks. But I don't think anyone left hungry.

       Our resident homeless group was small, but my boy was there, and I gave him a stuffed monkey with a "press me" button on its belly. Pressing the button sets off a loud monkey squeal, and my boy was delighted to know it would irritate his friends. The monkey squealed a lot during lunch, and waved its little paw at me on leaving. My, how that child has come out :) His favorite subject is math, and school is good.

       Our she man made an appearance before lunch, but I wasn't in on his/her conversation with Lillian. I did get the scoop: He/she is leaving in a day or two to go live with his/her husband in a hotel. She man is 20 years older than hubby, and hub just got out of prison. Rode hard and put up wet, one and all.

       We had the gospel hour for our entertainment, but it was more like the gospel 2-1/2 hours with a bit of a Martin Luther King speech thrown in. Nothing to dance to.

       Doug is reported to have retained the position for which he was hired, but I get the feeling that he'll be walking a tightrope. I asked Lillian how she managed to stay there so many years, while so many other folks got tossed out on their ears. She said it was because she just does her job and never gets friendly with anybody. As I see it, the bottom line is that the Bureau of Prisons frowns on having their prisoners treated good-naturedly. Doug really needs to cut back on the compassion…

       So all's well that ends well. I'll be practicing my prisoner-appropriate scowl in the meantime, and God willing, I'll see you next Sunday.