Yesterday, I prepared enough hors d'oeuvres skewers to feed the lunch group—green and black olives, cherry tomatoes, pepper jack and cheddar cheese cubes. On arrival at 9:30 this morning, I put those in the walk-in refrigerator and promptly forgot them.
I'd shopped for soup makings this week, so I set about opening cans and filling the big soup pot. Hottie strolled through and alternated feigning interest and disgust. Doug had begun the morning with remnants of a sickly hangover, but within an hour or so he and Hottie had morphed into a pair of 10-year-olds practicing slap-stick. Boys will be boys will be boys—apparently forever.
Before my soup could begin simmering, I realized there wasn't enough, so I asked Hottie if he would allow me to raid the food closet. I followed him through the long hall and out the locked door into the foyer where three men were sleeping off their previous evenings. Two were propped on plastic boxes known as "seats," and one was sprawled on the vinyl floor. Hottie gently pushed the man's feet away from the food pantry door, as he unlocked it. The man roused groggily and repositioned himself when Hottie explained that he was blocking the closet door.
I've always had strange feelings about walking through that foyer on Sunday mornings when the night's "leftovers" are sleeping on the floor. There they are—unkempt, homeless, helpless, and surprisingly curious about the lady in the apron who is obviously not a social worker. Hottie left me to help myself in the closet, and I let myself out, my apron filled with cans of vegetables. He walked me back to the dining room where he unlocked that door for me. I'm telling you—those halls are eerie, almost as if no one lives there at all. I suppose the residents are all tucked into their rooms until mealtime—except for those on the floor who get no meals... tho I did see Hottie fill a plate and secret it out of the kitchen.
Word has it that Crazy has been in contract with the shelter, crying and begging for work. Word also reports that his drinking is back in full swing. Word shares that Hottie was once a resident there, and a thin fellow. Perhaps he has a story that would explain how he looks old beyond his years. I was disappointed to hear that he has suffered like that.
He brought an interesting tale to the kitchen: A resident came to him this week to request some flipflops to wear in the shower. Those are available. Hottie turned to access the supply closet for the flipflops only to have the resident say, "Oh, and while you're in there, could you get me a breakfast tray with folding legs?"
Doug and I knew immediately WHO had made the request—the princess herself. I mean, really—a breakfast tray. Perhaps she thinks the shelter might also provide silk bed jackets and room service... At least she's completely civil and not in debt to the place. On the other hand, our little girl and her mother are completely in debt, having not paid one day of their rent. Doug says they will be sent away this week.
The soup was served with chicken nuggets. For dinner, Doug made barbeque. We plated it on buns with pork 'n beans. At dinnertime, Hottie will add potato salad to the plates—and skewers of olives, etc.! Geeze.
The kids from the hotel across the street came for a long visit and ate heartily. Their female companion had been sick all morning, but she ate some of the soup and said it made her stomach feel better. I can only hope I don't catch anything!
A friend of Doug's came by when lunch was over to pick up day-old plates of food to feed to his dogs. Doug gave him a large container to fill with soup to take home. He mentioned sharing it with his prayer group tonight. Hottie was late to lunch, but he ate the soup. Even I ate the soup. Finally, decent soup!
We surely had a crowd of "visitor" folks in the kitchen today! Nice folks all.
Just when I think I know what to expect, that simple expedition offers up a plethora of surprises. Life is so much better that way!
Sunday, January 27, 2019
Monday, January 21, 2019
MONDAY LADY
One brave or lost soul plied the street this morning, picking through tiny discards, I suppose, on the sidewalk. His clothing appeared adequate, but that's hard to define in 10°.
Without Crazy, there is more need for kitchen volunteers, and today it was me. Doug had a few dozen meat sandwiches prepared, and I put them in baggies. Then we made an assembly line and sacked them with drinks, chips, cookies and napkins. We finished so quickly that he kept track of the minutes, knowing he'd be heading home that much earlier!
Hottie was in and out of the kitchen; the boys enjoyed their usual banter, and we sacked a dozen breakfast bags. When noon rolled around, I filled the ice bin, and Doug set out a box of sack lunches on my side of the counter. "Don't give 'em a bag until they give you their room number," he instructed. Otherwise, he explained, folks might take extras. We served about 15 sacks. At least half of our diners returned their drinks to exchange them for something different, and the fancy lady asked for bottled water. In the interest of cleaning out my stash of Christmas candies, I set out a bowlful of mini-tootsie rolls. Our 17-year-old's mother got a styrofoam soup bowl and filled it with the candies. Desperate times/desperate measures.
For dinner, there were pots of green beans and mashed potatoes on the stove, and during lunch, Doug fried several bags of frozen chicken drumsticks—battered to perfection. When the lunch group had finished, we made up 35 plates with the potatoes, beans, chicken and rolls. Then we wrapped them and put them in the warming oven. Hottie would serve them at 4 this afternoon. When his shift ends, the night security guard comes on duty. It's a homeless shelter; I can't tell you enough how much homier it was with 30 pre-release prisoners in the bunch.
Without Crazy, there is more need for kitchen volunteers, and today it was me. Doug had a few dozen meat sandwiches prepared, and I put them in baggies. Then we made an assembly line and sacked them with drinks, chips, cookies and napkins. We finished so quickly that he kept track of the minutes, knowing he'd be heading home that much earlier!
Hottie was in and out of the kitchen; the boys enjoyed their usual banter, and we sacked a dozen breakfast bags. When noon rolled around, I filled the ice bin, and Doug set out a box of sack lunches on my side of the counter. "Don't give 'em a bag until they give you their room number," he instructed. Otherwise, he explained, folks might take extras. We served about 15 sacks. At least half of our diners returned their drinks to exchange them for something different, and the fancy lady asked for bottled water. In the interest of cleaning out my stash of Christmas candies, I set out a bowlful of mini-tootsie rolls. Our 17-year-old's mother got a styrofoam soup bowl and filled it with the candies. Desperate times/desperate measures.
For dinner, there were pots of green beans and mashed potatoes on the stove, and during lunch, Doug fried several bags of frozen chicken drumsticks—battered to perfection. When the lunch group had finished, we made up 35 plates with the potatoes, beans, chicken and rolls. Then we wrapped them and put them in the warming oven. Hottie would serve them at 4 this afternoon. When his shift ends, the night security guard comes on duty. It's a homeless shelter; I can't tell you enough how much homier it was with 30 pre-release prisoners in the bunch.
Sunday, January 20, 2019
Oh, GIRL!
Thing One: It's SO COLD that our city streets were being plied mostly by tourists at 10 this morning. A pitiful two or three homeless tried to appear as if they had someplace to go.
At the shelter I parked out back, as usual, and carefully climbed the metal stairs with their dusting of snow. We've talked about the back-door camera. Now, I am certain the boys are watching for me. I knocked on the heavy metal door and waited. When it opened, at first I didn't recognize the wide-eyed face that peered at me. It was Hottie, wearing a toboggan cap. After a pause of surprise I said, "Hey, Precious!"
Of course, Doug was listening and began a sing-song of teasing. They knew what they were doing—surprising the old lady who has a crush on Hottie. It worked. I love it. (Doug, too, was wearing a toboggan cap; I'm telling you it's cold!)
Hottie made himself far more available in the kitchen today. I may even come to know the boy, given time, but I'll be honest: this is a bitch of a time to have a crush (old enough to know what to do with it; too old to apply).
Thing Two: Crazy has been completely fired from all of his volunteer positions. There is no proof that he stole 30 pounds of meat, but he was seen carrying out "a bag." That's all. Now, not even I can take a bag, so today I took a basket, and it was not so easy. And I missed Crazy. Doug and I both hope the powers that be will apologize to Crazy eventually and let him come back. Meanwhile, both the walk-in cooler and freezer have been fitted with locks, and keys were given only to Doug and Hottie.
For lunch, Doug made the potato soup and mini-corndogs again. We served them with crackers and candy canes… I found myself filling the ice bucket and doing other chores that used to be Crazy's. Doug and I made more than 50 peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and put them in plastic bags by twos. He felt smugly prepared for tomorrow.
About 20 residents came to lunch. It is now obvious that our little girl is missing at least one oar. She came happy to the counter, smiling and announcing, "I hurt my head!" Doug asked, "Are you okay?" He's onto her—she's mentally about 4, and the best we can do is feed her and be kind.
The teenage boy, too, brought his one (or one-half) oar to the counter, smiling too broadly and wanting another whole plate of food. No problem. Both children's mothers look tired beyond belief—perhaps you've heard the expression "rode hard and put up wet."
The fancy lady was there, and I spotted a face that was new to me—a handsome young man with small tattoos under his eyes. I looked at them long enough to determine that they were not teardrops, but I didn't recognize them. The pre-release prisoners occasionally had those telltale teardrops (one for each murder), but this fellow's… they're a mystery to be solved another day.
Another new face belongs to a more senior gentleman who begs the question "How did you come to be here?" He is neat, polite, well spoken and without evidence of drug abuse. He and the fancy lady are people who could be ME—couldn't they?
A person of undetermined gender called the shelter to ask if they could come stay there. They were cold. Hottie had to tell them, "You cannot stay here without applying, but the church is open until 3." The person hung up on him. The sun may be shining, but it's below freezing today and wind gusts are hitting 30 mph.
The young men from the hotel across the street came for a plate of lunch. They were in good spirits and we had a fun visit. Again, Hottie was right in the middle of everything—most unusual. So Doug asked him, teasingly, "What was that old lady doing in your office this morning?" and Hottie said, "I like 'em with one foot in the ground."
"And four toes!" Doug laughed.
"She was just donating some food," Hottie admitted, but that tête-à-tête made me stand up straighter and curse my wrinkles.
For dinner, Doug made a pasta dish and corn on the cob. When lunch was finished, we filled 45 plates with the dinner foods and put them in the warming oven. Doug mopped the kitchen, and that was all he had left to do. Tomorrow, I will go again and perform whatever duties were Crazy's. And did you know? Volunteers (like Crazy was for 6 years) are required to fill out "a book of forms" for background checks and multitudes of other insights. Apparently, as "The Sunday Lady," I was able to just walk in… and stay.
At the shelter I parked out back, as usual, and carefully climbed the metal stairs with their dusting of snow. We've talked about the back-door camera. Now, I am certain the boys are watching for me. I knocked on the heavy metal door and waited. When it opened, at first I didn't recognize the wide-eyed face that peered at me. It was Hottie, wearing a toboggan cap. After a pause of surprise I said, "Hey, Precious!"
Of course, Doug was listening and began a sing-song of teasing. They knew what they were doing—surprising the old lady who has a crush on Hottie. It worked. I love it. (Doug, too, was wearing a toboggan cap; I'm telling you it's cold!)
Hottie made himself far more available in the kitchen today. I may even come to know the boy, given time, but I'll be honest: this is a bitch of a time to have a crush (old enough to know what to do with it; too old to apply).
Thing Two: Crazy has been completely fired from all of his volunteer positions. There is no proof that he stole 30 pounds of meat, but he was seen carrying out "a bag." That's all. Now, not even I can take a bag, so today I took a basket, and it was not so easy. And I missed Crazy. Doug and I both hope the powers that be will apologize to Crazy eventually and let him come back. Meanwhile, both the walk-in cooler and freezer have been fitted with locks, and keys were given only to Doug and Hottie.
For lunch, Doug made the potato soup and mini-corndogs again. We served them with crackers and candy canes… I found myself filling the ice bucket and doing other chores that used to be Crazy's. Doug and I made more than 50 peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and put them in plastic bags by twos. He felt smugly prepared for tomorrow.
About 20 residents came to lunch. It is now obvious that our little girl is missing at least one oar. She came happy to the counter, smiling and announcing, "I hurt my head!" Doug asked, "Are you okay?" He's onto her—she's mentally about 4, and the best we can do is feed her and be kind.
The teenage boy, too, brought his one (or one-half) oar to the counter, smiling too broadly and wanting another whole plate of food. No problem. Both children's mothers look tired beyond belief—perhaps you've heard the expression "rode hard and put up wet."
The fancy lady was there, and I spotted a face that was new to me—a handsome young man with small tattoos under his eyes. I looked at them long enough to determine that they were not teardrops, but I didn't recognize them. The pre-release prisoners occasionally had those telltale teardrops (one for each murder), but this fellow's… they're a mystery to be solved another day.
Another new face belongs to a more senior gentleman who begs the question "How did you come to be here?" He is neat, polite, well spoken and without evidence of drug abuse. He and the fancy lady are people who could be ME—couldn't they?
A person of undetermined gender called the shelter to ask if they could come stay there. They were cold. Hottie had to tell them, "You cannot stay here without applying, but the church is open until 3." The person hung up on him. The sun may be shining, but it's below freezing today and wind gusts are hitting 30 mph.
The young men from the hotel across the street came for a plate of lunch. They were in good spirits and we had a fun visit. Again, Hottie was right in the middle of everything—most unusual. So Doug asked him, teasingly, "What was that old lady doing in your office this morning?" and Hottie said, "I like 'em with one foot in the ground."
"And four toes!" Doug laughed.
"She was just donating some food," Hottie admitted, but that tête-à-tête made me stand up straighter and curse my wrinkles.
For dinner, Doug made a pasta dish and corn on the cob. When lunch was finished, we filled 45 plates with the dinner foods and put them in the warming oven. Doug mopped the kitchen, and that was all he had left to do. Tomorrow, I will go again and perform whatever duties were Crazy's. And did you know? Volunteers (like Crazy was for 6 years) are required to fill out "a book of forms" for background checks and multitudes of other insights. Apparently, as "The Sunday Lady," I was able to just walk in… and stay.
Sunday, January 13, 2019
WHAT A MESS!
It looked like a regular Sunday when I drove into town, except the trees were all covered with just enough ice to make them glisten. Lovely, just lovely. Our die-hard homeless were bundled to a fare-thee-well, trooping through the streets with the appearance of having someplace to go.
Doug and Crazy were slowly pulling together foods for lunch and dinner, and within 5 minutes Hottie came to the kitchen for something. I set to work making 4 dozen meat and cheese sandwiches for tomorrow's sack lunches. Doug had a pot of potato soup on the stove for lunch, and another with green beans for dinner. In the oven he had two pans of dressing. I never did discover tonight's entree, but for lunch we served chicken salad. It wasn't that fabulous kind we had in pre-release days, but nobody complained.
The 17-year-old didn't want any, but his mother told him he was going to have some, and he was going to taste it. So he agreed. Later, he came for more.
I think we served about 20 lunches, all told. The kids who work across the street came for a plate. They weren't as jolly as usual, but our weather isn't helping.
When I'd finished serving lunch, I returned to my sandwich preparation, and sacked 2 dozen lunches. Doug helped. Then I made about 2 dozen peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and we sacked those for the street folks.
The guys were pleasant today—almost too quiet. Somebody had stolen 30 pounds of meat from the freezer, and the incident had thrown a pall on the place. Mr. A was once the central thief, but he's been gone a long time! Fingers were pointing toward Crazy.
Before my very loose "shift" ended, and sooner than ever before, Crazy declared himself sick and went home. Doug would have done that too because he was sick at heart, but he could only try to solve the puzzle. He and Hottie talked at length about the problem. They will put a lock on the freezer… some of the cameras work, but the most important ones no longer make films; ergo, there was no proof of who came and went or what they might have carried away. Doug took me aside in the pantry and said, "Miss Joy, you can't bring your bag in here anymore, and you need to leave your purse in the car."
My bag? My Sunday-Lady bag? Really?
It took awhile, but once I got home, I decided I could take candies and toys in a basket. It's worth a try. This theft thing is awfully pervasive. One might imagine that 30 pounds of meat could be sold for a few ounces of drugs—drugs sneaked across the border from Mexico in some malnourished, dehydrated, lice-riddled child's over-sized shoes.
Doug and Crazy were slowly pulling together foods for lunch and dinner, and within 5 minutes Hottie came to the kitchen for something. I set to work making 4 dozen meat and cheese sandwiches for tomorrow's sack lunches. Doug had a pot of potato soup on the stove for lunch, and another with green beans for dinner. In the oven he had two pans of dressing. I never did discover tonight's entree, but for lunch we served chicken salad. It wasn't that fabulous kind we had in pre-release days, but nobody complained.
The 17-year-old didn't want any, but his mother told him he was going to have some, and he was going to taste it. So he agreed. Later, he came for more.
I think we served about 20 lunches, all told. The kids who work across the street came for a plate. They weren't as jolly as usual, but our weather isn't helping.
When I'd finished serving lunch, I returned to my sandwich preparation, and sacked 2 dozen lunches. Doug helped. Then I made about 2 dozen peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and we sacked those for the street folks.
The guys were pleasant today—almost too quiet. Somebody had stolen 30 pounds of meat from the freezer, and the incident had thrown a pall on the place. Mr. A was once the central thief, but he's been gone a long time! Fingers were pointing toward Crazy.
Before my very loose "shift" ended, and sooner than ever before, Crazy declared himself sick and went home. Doug would have done that too because he was sick at heart, but he could only try to solve the puzzle. He and Hottie talked at length about the problem. They will put a lock on the freezer… some of the cameras work, but the most important ones no longer make films; ergo, there was no proof of who came and went or what they might have carried away. Doug took me aside in the pantry and said, "Miss Joy, you can't bring your bag in here anymore, and you need to leave your purse in the car."
My bag? My Sunday-Lady bag? Really?
It took awhile, but once I got home, I decided I could take candies and toys in a basket. It's worth a try. This theft thing is awfully pervasive. One might imagine that 30 pounds of meat could be sold for a few ounces of drugs—drugs sneaked across the border from Mexico in some malnourished, dehydrated, lice-riddled child's over-sized shoes.
Sunday, January 6, 2019
TWO QUINQUAGENARIANS and ONE SUNSHINE
Doug and Crazy appeared busy when I arrived shortly after 10:00. Doug had a large pot of hot dogs boiling, and he was preparing to make a few dozen meat sandwiches. Just as I finished tying my apron, Hottie strolled into the dining room, ostensibly for a cup of coffee (he does have cameras in his office, and he can see when anyone arrives). Otherwise, I wouldn't know how to explain his impeccable timing… "Hey, Sunshine!" I called.
Suddenly, the kitchen was ablaze with 10-year-old boys! Doug and Crazy forgot they are middle-aged and began to chant, "Ooooh, Sunshine! Ooooh! Hey, Sunshine!"
I put my hand on Doug's shoulder and calmly explained, "This is a perfect example of separating the old men from the boys." They settled down, but not before getting in another dig or two, and Doug made it clear that Hottie is only 10 years younger than he. So he's 40—and they might be a little bit jealous. Hmm.
As for Sunshine, himself, he appeared pleased with his new-found status and came several times to stand by me at the work table while the crew exchanged laughs of memorable events. They do have entertaining jobs.
For lunch, Doug said we were serving corn dogs and French fries. Period. These particular corn dogs are about 2" long, and I'm told they're "not very good." Doug let me scavenge through the canned goods box and make a pot of soup. Sadly, I used all the cans, and we don't get much of those kinds of things anymore. The soup was tolerable; a few folks asked for seconds.
Doug gave me a more complete understanding of our shelter today. Since the government stopped housing pre-release prisoners there, we don't have enough money to buy that fancy chicken salad we used to have—or those #10 cans of fruit—among other things we once enjoyed. There are 20 #10 cans of food in the pantry today; I think those same cans have been there more than a month: turnip greens, peaches (1 can), biscuit gravy, corn, green beans—nothing appealing. We do have offers of frozen meats from a food bank, but Doug doesn't want to put his reputation on the line by serving meats of which he has no history—have they ever been thawed? Where have they been? How old are they? So his hands and budget are tied to the few things he can trust. He reminded me, "Miss Joy, this is a homeless shelter. That's the bottom line. These people are lucky to get a bowl of soup and a sandwich." I just never saw the bottom line before, but it's real, and it's a hard place.
Doug's expression of the day came as he pointed out a woman at the lunch counter, "That woman is as crazy as a shot cat." I believe him.
Our little girl (now 10) gave me a smile and said, "I remember you!" much like a 3- or 4-year-old might do. I'm pretty sure her I.Q. took a hit in the womb. The 17-year-old was equally amenable and just as off key.
The fancy lady was there—sleek and calm as ever. The young folks who work at the nearby hotel came for plates of food and were a lot of fun to chat with.
Crazy is such a different person now. He lets me serve the plates any way I please, and he faithfully checks off names as folks come through the line—background backup. Both he and Doug left the kitchen twice to perform some duty downstairs, taking a mop along. As he left, Doug said, "Lock the door." There are unpredictable folks who wander into the shelter at times, but I've not seen any. Some event today elicited a round of stories of past events from the guys. They should write a book.
When lunch was over, I helped finish sacking Doug's meat sandwiches, then helped with putting tonight's hotdogs in buns. Those went into the warming oven, and a huge pan of chili went into the gas oven. On the side, they'll serve pre-fab potato salad.
Suddenly, the kitchen was ablaze with 10-year-old boys! Doug and Crazy forgot they are middle-aged and began to chant, "Ooooh, Sunshine! Ooooh! Hey, Sunshine!"
I put my hand on Doug's shoulder and calmly explained, "This is a perfect example of separating the old men from the boys." They settled down, but not before getting in another dig or two, and Doug made it clear that Hottie is only 10 years younger than he. So he's 40—and they might be a little bit jealous. Hmm.
As for Sunshine, himself, he appeared pleased with his new-found status and came several times to stand by me at the work table while the crew exchanged laughs of memorable events. They do have entertaining jobs.
For lunch, Doug said we were serving corn dogs and French fries. Period. These particular corn dogs are about 2" long, and I'm told they're "not very good." Doug let me scavenge through the canned goods box and make a pot of soup. Sadly, I used all the cans, and we don't get much of those kinds of things anymore. The soup was tolerable; a few folks asked for seconds.
 |
| Doug says these are angus beef dogs; you can tell by all the grease floating on top... Doug is quite fond of a good joke, so I never know… |
 |
| Concoction soup, mini corndogs, fries and candy. |
 |
| If you squeeze 15 on a tray and stack them by 2's, you can make 30 at once. |
Doug gave me a more complete understanding of our shelter today. Since the government stopped housing pre-release prisoners there, we don't have enough money to buy that fancy chicken salad we used to have—or those #10 cans of fruit—among other things we once enjoyed. There are 20 #10 cans of food in the pantry today; I think those same cans have been there more than a month: turnip greens, peaches (1 can), biscuit gravy, corn, green beans—nothing appealing. We do have offers of frozen meats from a food bank, but Doug doesn't want to put his reputation on the line by serving meats of which he has no history—have they ever been thawed? Where have they been? How old are they? So his hands and budget are tied to the few things he can trust. He reminded me, "Miss Joy, this is a homeless shelter. That's the bottom line. These people are lucky to get a bowl of soup and a sandwich." I just never saw the bottom line before, but it's real, and it's a hard place.
Doug's expression of the day came as he pointed out a woman at the lunch counter, "That woman is as crazy as a shot cat." I believe him.
Our little girl (now 10) gave me a smile and said, "I remember you!" much like a 3- or 4-year-old might do. I'm pretty sure her I.Q. took a hit in the womb. The 17-year-old was equally amenable and just as off key.
The fancy lady was there—sleek and calm as ever. The young folks who work at the nearby hotel came for plates of food and were a lot of fun to chat with.
Crazy is such a different person now. He lets me serve the plates any way I please, and he faithfully checks off names as folks come through the line—background backup. Both he and Doug left the kitchen twice to perform some duty downstairs, taking a mop along. As he left, Doug said, "Lock the door." There are unpredictable folks who wander into the shelter at times, but I've not seen any. Some event today elicited a round of stories of past events from the guys. They should write a book.
When lunch was over, I helped finish sacking Doug's meat sandwiches, then helped with putting tonight's hotdogs in buns. Those went into the warming oven, and a huge pan of chili went into the gas oven. On the side, they'll serve pre-fab potato salad.
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