OVERFLOW ON THE FLOOR

       The young blonde woman is keeping the gate today. She never looks up. People go in and out unseen (as folks on the inside open the door for them), and I must believe it would be fairly easy for someone dangerous to slide thru the cracks. But Doug says she's a good worker—better than Lanyard Guy who'll be in charge of handing out food later tonight. He's rowing with only one oar, so we don't expect much from him.

       This is the first bitter cold day of the season. No one was outside smoking, and the dining room held a number of folks seeking someplace to go—that pale whale of a man being front and center for the whole morning. He stays close to the food or someone to talk to. I used his expertise to judge the grits I was fixing—and yes, I was "fixing" them, not preparing them.

       Doug began by showing off a 5-gallon pot of soup he'd made "for the overflow" and a 3-gallon pot with grits (his first). He doesn't like grits, so he's never made them. He tried increasing the recipe on the bag, but when they didn't seem right, he winged it. We had about 6 quarts of gritty grits. I added at least 2 quarts of water over the next 90 minutes and simmered those "quick grits" until they were as tender as God would allow. The pale one taste-tested until they passed muster. I added cheese. The grits were good.

       The soup was thick, and Doug said it needed more liquid, but he wasn't sure how to do that. We didn't have chicken broth, so I added a can of mixed greens, a jar of spaghetti sauce and a lot of water. This soup pot was for "the overflow." Joey used to mention the overflow, but I never asked many questions about them. Today, I asked. Doug says they are folks who come in the evenings for a meal and a warm bed. They are not "regular residents," and they sleep on mats on the floor. There are usually about 20 of them, but there is room for 40. I'm never at the shelter in the evenings, so I've not seen these people. I assume they are all men, because they stay "downstairs." The weather has guaranteed a crowd of them tonight, and Doug is ready. As always, on bitter-cold days, there were a few folks holed up in the foyer, with no place else to go.

       For lunch, we served scrambled eggs, bacon, biscuits, and grits. No one complained, and we did run out of that food near the end. Latecomers had to settle for parts of the menu or leftover fish sandwiches in rock-hard buns. If I had not given the pre-release so many seconds, we'd have had enough for everyone… Doug sat in a chair, crossed his arms over his chest, and grinned as I handed out extras. He knew I was erring. Still, everyone left with a full stomach, and I was prepared to serve out the soup if necessary.

       We also served a "surprise" meal of sardines and crackers, again hiding a new ballpoint pen under the sardine can. I put grits and eggs on the side. There were three of us serving up lunch, but none of us saw who took the surprise plate! Aw, man…

       We have a "new angry mom," as Doug calls her. She has two absolutely gorgeous little boys, 5 and 7, who appear to be normal, busy little boys. They, too, were hanging out in the dining room long before lunchtime. On the advice of that jolly mopping fellow (who was mopping as I arrived), I got some copy paper from Gatekeeper without telling her what it was for… and gave it to the boys along with a box of crayons. Mom looked up at me with a huge smile. "Oh… thank you," she beamed. The boys settled down to color.

       Later, I heard her snapping at them to "Go sit down!" She's stressed. She's no doubt angry about her circumstances, and I understand how watching her gets on Doug's nerves because he has the privilege every day. But because I can stand so far back, I can be forgiving, and honestly, I feel like she is a good mom doing the best she can. She is nothing like the nutcase we had who was pregnant and refused to EAT anything we served—and taught her kids to eat only bread products like mac 'n cheese and ramen noodles—don't get me started.

       I was ready for the new boys and had put Beanies and gum in plastic baggies for them. I handed one to each child, along with an empty paper towel roll and instructions for its use as a "durt-de-dur." The younger child looked up at me distressed. "But I want the toy!" he said. I guess he thought I had put a toy in front of him, but I was going to make him take the cardboard roll instead. Who knows? I assured him that the toy and the gum were his. Then their mother made both boys put the toys aside and eat. Later, I looked over the serving counter to see them with those rollers at their lips, calling out softly to bugle the hounds.

       Boy #1 was watching me like a hawk. It was probably 15 minutes later that I took the time to give him his goodies; rest assured, he got the best toy in the bunch, and before I left he showed me again how to finger a scale on the piano.

       Of interest today was the report on one of our pre-release and his "alcohol incident." He was caught in the parking lot with a bottle of whiskey. Tomorrow, he returns to the Big House. I have no idea how long it takes to earn the privilege of the shelter's "half-way house," but it's probably a lot longer than the 6 months served there. Apparently, testing the boundaries is not uncommon among that group because another fellow (one who doesn't eat pork) threatened Doug this week with, "You're lucky you didn't put bacon in those green beans…" It's as if they are begging to be sent back… and you know, maybe they are; it's pretty scary out in the real world.

       We had 47 diners for lunch, and Doug expects 60 for dinner, with the overflow. As of next week, he alone will be working that kitchen. There have been no applicants to take the position of "chief cook," nor have there been any for the position of secondary cook. Doug has been named "Cook." Maybe the powers who orchestrated all the turnover in that place will come to fully appreciate this man who so skillfully provides and so lovingly serves.

NO GOURMET TODAY

       It's dark today, and misting, but not so cold. Numerous folks were enjoying the smoking area when I arrived, and my boy was playing with his yo-yo in the parking lot. He ran up to me as I came toward the door, "Do you have any yo-yo strings?"
       "Yes, I do," I said, setting my bag on the nearest bench that happened to be on the "pre-release" side. The child started to come to me, then stopped. He's been told, apparently, that his group isn't allowed on that side of the front door. He inched close enough though, and I gave him a string. At first he said he could put it on by himself, then he said maybe not, and he would see me later for that. But he didn't come to lunch, so I'm just glad to have seen him at all.
       A pre-release fellow begged me to make them some potato soup, but I reminded him that fresh potatoes were hard to come by there. "Probably take an act of God!" he grumped. I agreed.
       One of our homeless who happens to be jolly and plump did a lot of mopping and other chores this morning. We fed him very well, and mirth is always welcomed there.
       Lunch was already planned—Doug was cleaning out the refrigerator… leftover potatoes, steamed broccoli, BBQ chicken wings, corn dogs, peaches, applesauce, and fried potato cakes—depending on which group you were in and which plate you got. There was grease aplenty!
       A young man who is working off his community service hours worked with us for a long while. In preparation for Thanksgiving, Mr. Huggy had put dozens of turkeys in the walk-in refrigerator and those had dripped a deep yucky puddle on the floor of the fridge. You can't imagine how upset our cook was about that, but our helper stacked the turkeys neatly and mopped up the puddle. Then he and I made up 48 sack lunches. I was exhausted long before serving time.
       The pre-release were house-bound today (because of some infraction that had occurred). They were grumbling about not getting to see their families, but for the most part, they were in good spirits. We have one who doesn't eat pork. I enjoyed telling Doug about the days when we had many who didn't eat pork, boasted of their Muslim ties and all the other neat stuff they'd learned in prison. Doug was surprised! Come to think of it, we haven't had a group like that in a very long time. I wonder why…
       Big John was nowhere to be seen. Maybe he got out early. I failed to ask Doug.
       Among the homeless at lunch was our sick fellow. He's on oxygen now. It's uplifting to watch the others hover around him, bring him his food and see to his needs. I heard his voice at one point, and it was stronger and more upbeat than I would have expected.
       The huge pale fellow I dubbed our "new kid" is ever present in the dining area and always of good cheer. He's got a warm bed and three squares a day for the whole winter, if he follows protocol.
       The people who bring bread donations each Sunday arrived around 12:30, as usual. Doug and I no longer get excited about the many loaves, and today Doug demonstrated the loud "crack" that a loaf will make when you drop it on the floor. Then he scored 2 points heaving it into the dumpster out back—bam, chunk, boom—as it hit the side and bounced its way to the bottom. I found another rock-hard loaf and asked for a replay.
       I'm thinking our creative cooking is not going to happen again for a couple of months. Those dozens of turkeys will not be consumed on Thanksgiving and will be served out (as always) for at least a week afterward. Then the Christmas feast will begin…and endure.
       There was no exhilaration driving home in the mist. I was not excited to tell you about today's events, but I was there and I wouldn't have missed it for the world.

QUEECHEE

      It's brisk today. The fall colors are blowing quickly off the trees, heralding a winter with a full house at the shelter, and it's full up—already. In spite of the tolerable weather, one lone smoker was nursing a cigarette  and hunkered against the breeze on the homeless-resident side. He was gray-haired and frail looking. He didn't look up.

       Gatekeeper (Les—the strapping, tall, dark, handsome fellow) wasn't around, but one of the residents let me in. Another fellow called from the foyer, "What's for lunch?"

       "Quiche," I answered.

       "Well, I'll have to order out," he replied. No apologies.

       Doug had a huge pot of greens on to simmer for dinner, but I had promised him that lunch was on me. All he had to do was fry up a dozen slices of bacon. Those were ready when I got there with my frozen pie shells and a can of black olives.

       I set to work, making a huge mess, but within about half an hour I had put together 8 quiches. There was a tiny can of ham chunks in the mystery box, so one quiche had ham and cheese. All of the quiches were made with eggs, milk and grated cheddar cheese, but about four had bacon. The rest had vegetables which included two or more of the following, depending on how much I had chopped up: bell pepper, onion, and black olives.

       Doug and I put the pies on two huge baking sheets, and slid one into each of the ovens. Doug eyed each pie, as they were in the creation process. He didn't think he'd be wanting any. He doesn't eat black olives… he wasn't thrilled with most of the concoctions, but he thought he might "try" the plain bacon/cheese edition.

       While those baked, I put on a large pot of grits. This was my first time to serve grits to 25 people. I used "quick grits" which take 3-5 minutes to cook, but really good grits are still gritty after such a short time. I had to do some math with the recipe: 12 cups of water, 3 cups of grits, 1-1/2 tsp. salt, and 1/4 cup margarine. I let them bubble for at least half an hour. The consistency was perfect, and in the end, the pot was scraped clean.

       On the side, we had fruit cocktail and then applesauce.

       At 11:30, the pre-release were called to lunch. However, our "new child," that huge pale fellow of good cheer had been in the dining room for some time, sipping coffee and trying to compete with the drone of the stove fans for conversation. Truth was: he was all about the food.

       So they came in. They eyed the plates, they frowned, they asked questions. Some of them took leftovers of fish sandwiches from yesterday, but the majority took the quiche. After about 10 minutes, "Joy! I LIKE quiche!" came flying over the serving counter from a fellow who'd just eaten his very first piece. Could he have some more? Yes, he could.

       Many asked for more, and Doug and I surely enjoyed watching them discover quiche. Doug, too, was all over the bacon/cheese quiche—filling his plate and ducking behind the refrigerator to scarf it down.

       When the homeless residents arrived, the questioning looks were much the same, but only one fellow asked for a sack lunch. He was NOT putting "egg pie" in his mouth—no matter what was in it! Surprisingly, a number of folks knew what they were looking at. Boy #2 came to the counter with his mom and took a leftover fish dinner. Watching his mom eat quiche, he decided he'd like to just "taste" a piece with bacon in it. Mom came to ask for "just a taste." Within a minute, Mom was back to ask if the child could have a whole slice. That was the best part of my day with them—and my last visit with them. They are leaving for a place of their own on Friday. I'll miss them.

       There was no sign of Boy #1, but he still lives there.

       Big John was quite jolly today—last week's pall has fallen away, and he brought his usual good cheer to the dining room. He leaves in two weeks. I'll miss him a lot! He asked about my daughter, and started a brief but honest conversation among several of us about raising kids.

       I'll leave you with the good, the sad, and the wretched: A woman arrived very late for lunch. She was dressed up, as for church. Doug let out a snort of disgust, "She won't eat anything! Turns her nose up at everything!" However, there was only one plate left on the shelf—a bell pepper, cheese & onion quiche. The woman took it and sat down. Then she came back to ask for a separate bowl for her fruit, as she wanted to warm her quiche. Then she ate with gusto and gave the quiche high marks. Surely she doesn't "belong" in a homeless shelter.

       As I finished organizing the usual donated sacks of bread, one of our residents reported that a man was digging through the dumpster out back, for food. Nothing we could do. Not a thing. Some people prefer to dig their goods from the trash. I guess it saves them from feeling indebted.

       During lunch prep I asked Doug how our fellow with lung cancer was doing. Was he still there? "Yes," Doug said, "he's sittin' right there in the dining room drinking coffee." I craned my neck around the warming oven to see. There was that gray-hair, frail-looking smoker I'd passed on my way in. I guess it doesn't matter anymore if he smokes or not.

       Gatekeeper bellowed as I passed his window on my way out, "Lunch was great! Thanks a bunch!"

       Lunch was great, and he'd never understand, but it didn't have a thing to do with the menu.

HOW BAD IS IT?

       When I entered the shelter foyer today, a young blonde woman stared at me from inside the locked door. I smiled. I waved. She stared some more. Finally, she decided it might be safe to let me in. I introduced myself, and she told me she'd never worked that shift before. She's an odd one, but then that's about all we get as gatekeepers. By noon, she had left, and Lanyard Guy replaced her. I hadn't seen him in months! Apparently, he's good for the long haul, but I hear no rave reviews about his work…

       Being there today felt like Saturday to a school-age kid, or a holiday, because I missed it so last week. I had a small cancer removed, and the procedure put me abed for a week, but that was nothing, and my prognosis is perfect health. Then again, we don't have crystal balls, which I count as a great blessing… and I'll tell you why.

       Doug had a pall over him when I stepped into the kitchen. I was expecting to be greeted excitedly, but he was solemn. He and his family have been charged with pulling the plug on a sister who had a brain hemorrhage this week. He's being very stoic about it, and he brought his teenage daughter to help out today—she too is bearing up well, tho he tells me this is a severe loss for the child.

       Downstairs, we are housing a man with lung cancer who has been given 6 months to live. He is being "treated" with chemo, and is too ill to come to the dining room. He alone is allowed to have food in his room. This is not how or where any of us envisions our last 6 months.

       As if he didn't have enough on his heart, Doug would not let me do very much of the lunch prep. Miss Lillian had told him to clean out the fridge, so he was serving chicken gravy (with bits of chicken) over spaghetti. On the side, we had broccoli and English peas, biscuits and fruit cocktail. No one complained. The two latecomers had to take a sack lunch. I enjoyed working the serving counter with Doug's daughter, and teaching her what little I know about the job. I spent a lot of time pointing out to her the personalities that were coming to lunch, and the disparity between the two groups. Oddly, our pre-release were very quiet today—even Big Jack. He greeted me several times, but his jocularity was completely missing.

       Our homeless, on the other hand, were cheerful and in abundance. Boy #1 hasn't been seen all week, but Boy #2 was at lunch and enjoyed getting his goodies. That is surely "the sweetest child." We have another new "child," an old-looking man of great girth and awfully pale skin. He has a cane, and I held my breath as he worked his way to a table with his meal. Could I help him? "No, thanks. I've got it," he replied cheerfully. Where does he find his cheerful?

       It was a bit difficult standing on my feet for 2-1/2 hours, after being so lazy for 2 weeks, but when it was over, I realized that I had no aches or pains, save those in my heart. I took Doug aside as I was leaving. "THIS is why I spent money I don't have on a baby grand piano," I said. "Don't neglect your bucket list."

       "Oh, I won't!" he assured me.

       I hugged him hard. "I love you."

       "I love you too," he said.

       And we do. In some odd way, it's just the pits to get so connected to others, but what else can we do?