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.