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.