THE BUBBLES ARE HERE!

       Wal-Mart has loaded the shelves with all kinds of bubbles (short little bottles, long wand bottles…),  sidewalk chalk, Frisbees, and all manner of sunshine playthings. The large bargain packages make it economical for me to load up, so I have bubbles aplenty.
       Doug and I sacked a bunch of lunches before serving time. He had already made a huge pot of chili and a large bowl of salad. Oddly, Doug suggested (seriously) that I could add a dollop of cranberry sauce to the plates if I wished, but Crazy butted in shouting, "Don't nobody want no cranberry sauce!" I left it alone.
       The high point of prep was finding the huge box of Hershey bars and other candies in the pantry. I was just beginning to think through how I might give everyone some candy without overdoing it, when Mr. A said, "Give one to everybody!"
       "A whole one?" I gasped.
       Yes, a whole one. So I gathered up a little container of candy bars and took them to the serving counter, but putting a whole Hershey bar on every plate rubbed me the wrong way. So I broke the bars into 4 pieces each, as they are scored. Crazy and Mr. A gave me a very hard time about that, but I stood my ground.
       Pretty soon, the big candy box disappeared!!! A cry went out amongst us (I, for one, hadn't grabbed a bar for myself…). Eventually, Doug fessed up to having claimed the box for himself and having put it in his truck. That was that.
       The chili and salad made a wonderful lunch, but no one asked for seconds. The pre-release were of good humor, as were the residents, but both groups were a bit smaller than last week's because the weather has improved.
       Our 7-yr-old has moved away, and I miss his charming little face, but the 10-yr-old remains and announced, "The Toy Lady is here!" This week I'm a lady. He was pleased with his bubble wand, new pencil and glue stick. The 2-yr-old got a stuffed bear, and the 1-yr-old got a blue elephant. It was almost more than his little hands could handle, though it is age-appropriate. To my dismay, I noticed that the child will be a big brother in another 2 or 3 months…

       As I gathered my things to leave, I noticed that the candy box had been returned. Doug said he'd removed it because he didn't think it wise to give every diner a whole bar. "When you give them a whole candy bar, they think they're entitled to the same thing again, and we just don't have it." We were of one accord. I put many bars in my toy sack and brought them home for next week, but I left five times as much behind. After the night gatekeeper gets through with them, they will all be gone. I don't see that gal anymore, but you might remember a large gatekeeper who was a very good eater and a jolly soul to boot. She works night shift now.
       The mood has shifted in the kitchen. Doug is more serious. The music takes a backseat, and is sometimes not CW. Fans which obliterate all other noises (voices included) are left running unnecessarily. Mr. A is just nuts with snapping orders to one and all, and Crazy's sanity comes and goes like the wind. I never know what I'll find in there of a Sunday mornin'. What'd you find?

STATES OF EMERGENCY

      The day before yesterday, I started digging out my car in preparation for today's trek to the shelter. Yesterday, I finished the job. Older and wiser, I've learned that digging the car out of a foot of snow is no more work than clearing a path to the ignition. I let it run for a total of 90 minutes, and the warmth did most of the work. The roads are treacherous, but there weren't too many other nutcases out there, so I had room to breathe.

       Mr. A has been running the kitchen single-handedly for 3 days, and this morning was the first time "the boys" had seen each other since the storm hit. They had a lot of catching up to do! If I didn't know better, I'd think they were a bunch of old women.

       For dinner, they made a huge pot of greens and another of mashed potatoes. Then they breaded dozens of pork chops and deep fried them. So dinner will be tasty. Lunch was another story. Early on, I was assigned the task of sacking 25 PBJ lunches. When I finished, I looked around for lunch preparations. There was one of those cardboard pizzas in the oven… but that's all. Then Crazy handed me a pan full of what looked like hushpuppies (little bitty corndogs). Doug declared the pizza to be "burnt," and told me that the corndogs were lunch. I was to serve them with a bag of chips. Period.

       "And no," he said sternly, "you can't have any fruit!"

       So I rummaged through the mystery box where I found several cans of cranberry sauce. Don't say anything! I just can't stand to see a 3-section plate with an empty section. Crazy yelled from the dining room, "Ain't nobody gonna eat that cranberry sauce, Miss Joy!"

       No matter. When I served up the plates with corndogs, chips, cranberry sauce and little candy canes on the side, they were colorful, and we'd hit an all-time low for nutrition.

       Only one of the little boys was at lunch, and I gave him some bubbles. He refers to me as "The Toy Girl." Imagine that—not the toy lady, the Sunday lady, or ma'am! The little girl got a stuffed bear, and our 1-year-old was there, but I wasn't prepared for him. Next time.

       The Toy Girl smells like the deep fryer, and she's hungry. Think I'll fix myself some lunch and watch the snow melt. Be safe.

SNOW ON THE MOUNTAIN

       About 10 minutes after my arrival, Crazy left out for greener pastures, and he was unusually pleasant. Mr. A was vigorously stirring a big pot of soup, and Doug was working up a pan of scalloped potatoes. I was assigned to toast 4 loaves of bread and put the toast in the warming oven to go with the chicken salad for lunch. Our goal was to serve a warm lunch on this first snow day of the year.

       The soup was new to me, and you'll want this recipe! It was concocted from canned cream of mushroom, powdered soup base, corn, and chunks of grilled chicken. That soup was fine!

       Our deaf resident was at lunch, and we got off a few words, but most of mine turned to mush in my fingers. He's patient though.

       The boys (7 & 10) and the 2-yr-old girl were all there, the boys asking eagerly, "Are we getting a toy today?" All I had for them were tubs of Play Doh, and I found some BlowPops in the pantry. The baby was happy with a stuffed bear. There was a box full of candies, so every diner got one.

       Then a tall, handsome, strong-looking young man came to the counter to ask for milk. I had to get out a new jug, but I couldn't open it because my hand hasn't healed enough. "I only have one good hand too," the fellow said, but of course his hands were much stronger than mine.

       When we began to compare surgical procedures and scars, they were nearly identical! He had injured his thumb shooting machine guns in Afghanistan. I pressed him for his hopes and dreams. Most of his abilities lie with weaponry, but he's a good mechanic and wants to open his own little "mom 'n pop" garage. At the moment, he's homeless. It messes with my mind and hurts my heart to look at such potential standing on the receiving side of the lunch counter.

       In the middle of the frenzied serving of our resident homeless, I looked up to find Mr. A missing in action. I needed more plates, more bowls of soup, someone to check off the names—and I found him—out on the back porch. Doug had gone to the store for chewin' tobacco, and Mr. A was calling him to request a pack of cigarettes. Boys! My standing as kitchen mother is safe.

       Tomorrow night, at 10 degrees, many who won't come to shelters will ply the long road south of town, cross the railroad tracks, follow the path into the woods, and hunker down with a small fire, all their earthly goods, and their well-guarded freedom. It's gonna be a long winter.

CARBS ARE US

      Pizza and fries. That's got to be the worst meal we serve, especially because the pizza tastes like cardboard. It's very pretty, with just a hint of tomato-sauce color and what appears to be a generous sprinkling of grated mozzarella cheese, but the taste is fake—through and through. Today, Doug put bits of sausage and bacon on some of the pizzas; then they tasted like greasy cardboard. I'm so thankful I don't live at the shelter.

       We are full; even the pre-release stayed in. The same three children as last week came to lunch, and I gave them stuffed animals. The boys also got notebooks and pens. Both boys got haircuts this week—one in a Mohawk and the other in a similar cut, but with more on top. All the children wore pajamas to lunch. Miss Lillian would have had a field day with that!

       I enjoyed giving a few people what they asked for (with some secretive glances—don't let Mr. A hear us). The man who set off Mr. A's outburst last week came solemnly to the counter, obviously afraid he might get me in trouble again, but I just gave him a wink.

       Crazy was helpful and kind today. Mr. A and I made up several dozen sack lunches. Doug deep cleaned the walk-in coolers. He and Mr. A carried many empty boxes to the dumpster and flushed many containers of foods down the disposal. A street dweller was poking through that dumpster when I arrived this morning. I was a bit embarrassed for him and tried to pretend I hadn't seen him, but he gave me a bright, "Good morning!"

       Of note is that there are few sweets available now. The baked goods we have are old (some dated mid-December); I threw away packages of moldy rolls. Otherwise, it was an uneventful morning.

BACK IN THE SADDLE

       Single-digit temperatures are threatening to burst our seams at the shelter. There were few stragglers plying the streets when I drove into town, and the kitchen's back door was closed tightly against the cold.

       Crazy let me in and promptly turned his back to walk away. "Hello!" I shouted, but he ignored me. If I had not greeted him, he would have remarked snidely. Not my problem.

       Mr. A was hovering over a huge pot of soup—his own concoction and mostly noodles but with a beef base. He and Doug taste tested many spoonfuls, and when Doug suggested "more salt, but don't get heavy handed," Mr. A added salt and forgot about the heavy-handed part.

       The soup was good (salty, but good). The most interesting aspect of this pot of soup was Mr. A's pride in it. He made many announcements to anyone within earshot that his soup was so fine.

       He and Doug made dozens of grilled-cheese sandwiches to go with the soup—some with American cheese and some with Swiss.

       The pre-release numbered about 12—more than usual. They were just ordinary-looking folks with ordinary manners, and I'll admit that sometimes I miss the characters we had a few years ago. Today, our prisoners are no doubt the cream of the crop—no tattooed tear drops, no strutting, no power moves.

       Because lunch went quickly, we let the homeless residents come in early, so Mr. A told me to not give anyone seconds until 12:20, just to be sure that everyone got a meal. Still, there was a lot of food!

       Early on, a man came to the counter and said he wanted only a sandwich, so I asked if he'd like American cheese or Swiss. Other diners had simply taken what was on their plates, but it was no trouble to honor the man's request—we had a lot of food!

       When Mr. A heard me offer the man his choice, he hit the ceiling. "We do not give anyone a choice! They take what they get!" and on and on. The man came by the counter twice after that, mouthing, "I'm so sorry." But I told him I'd do it again, and he finally smiled with some sort of relief. THAT is hard living, taking a shelter worker's intolerance to heart like that… hard, hard, hard.

       There are FOUR children with us now! The 7-yr-old who loves to color is still there. Another boy is 10, and his little sister is almost 2. (The year-old baby was not at lunch.) When the boys came to the counter, the 7-yr-old asked, "Do I get a toy today?" I've been gone for two Sundays, and I guess he missed me, for whatever reasons.

       "Yes, you do," I said, "and I have something for a 10-year-old boy too! Do we have any 10-year-old boys here? Will all 10-year-old boys raise their hand?" I was looking straight at that child, but he doesn't know I'm harmless, so he just stood there silent. I repeated the question twice. At last, the 7-year-old raised his hand excitedly. By George, if the other guy wasn't going to step up, he was! "YOU are smart," I told him. And I let them know that toys were in the offing, just as soon as I finished serving.

       Many people asked for seconds, but I was not allowed to give those out—and in the end, some left without seconds. Of course, there was food to throw away. That hurt.

       The boys each got Play Doh and a spike ball. Also, I gave our newest fellow some colored pencils; he'd indicated that he needed some. He didn't need crayons because he has some, though they are in storage. So that's what they do with their earthly belongings. I've wondered.

       The little girl got a baby doll with a crocheted blanket. She held the doll on her shoulder with one hand, while feeding herself with the other. She and her brother both appeared a bit on edge, and it's understandable if you meet their frantic mom. The tone of her "…but now I'm homeless!" announcement said she found the situation incredulous. She's hyper and obviously out of her depth. "Miss Joy!" she called to me across the dining room, "how did you know to bring toys for three children today?" Oh, her world is so small right now.

       Sadly, if I shared my personal observations with staff there, they'd all frown and snort. Staff can be so hard-hearted.

       But I'm glad to be back—with one and a half good hands. By next week, I should have two!