TOO MUCH TO TELL

     Kevin was in his place on the back-porch lift when I arrived this morning. He was cheerful and quite "busy" as usual. He asked about the shovels, and I assured him I had returned the good one on Friday. Doug, however, had put the shovel back where it had been found (under a tree), and we assume the city reclaimed it. I left the 'splaining to Doug. As for Kevin's broken arm, it's  feeling better, but the story of that injury is still incomplete. Doug's version mentions Kevin getting into an argument with some bad hombres who held his arm down and jumped on it. Totally believable. Horribly sad. We didn't see Kevin again today, though Doug went out and called to him when lunch was ready.
     Last week we planned to serve quiche today, so I took pie pans, Jiffy pie crust mix, sautéed mushrooms, and chopped chives. Doug made a bowl of chopped peppers and onions. The shelter had the sour cream, cheese and eggs. Bacon was ordered but denied. Doug was baking ham slices and (2-year-old frozen) biscuits to go with the quiche. It was one of those best-laid plans.
     There were pork chops in the oven for the dinner menu. Oh, those plans were so well laid.
     We began by rolling out our pie crusts, but that duty fell mostly to me (experience, I suppose). Then I whipped up a batch of eggs and additives for each pie shell. Some had peppers, some mushrooms and chives, one only cheese. Doug slid them into the oven with pride, but what a mess we'd made on the prep table!
     THAT was precisely when the fire alarm went off. No, it wasn't a drill, and this time I did take my personal effects with me as I exited the back door. Doug and I crossed the street and stood obediently on the sidewalk, per regulations. We were alone there for minutes before a scant few residents meandered out. Long minutes later, we heard firetruck sirens. Doug returned to the building to "see what was happening." He felt that someone had set off the alarm while smoking in a bathroom. He was right.
     Meanwhile, three of the city's most stalwart vehicles roared up to our facility with a dozen or more  brave men in full fire-fighting garb. No one rushed into the building. This was a hurry-up-and-wait event—an expensive one.

The city's finest approach our situation. 

    On the sidewalk, I was chatting with one of our young residents when he wondered aloud why an old woman was trying to go into the building. She had just arrived on foot, carrying a large bag, she hadn't a clue about the alarm event, and apparently she was not intimidated by the fire truck parked at the front door. I tried to explain to the boy that the old woman's sandwich appeared to be missing at least one slice of bread… but he could not accept such a state of mind. I came to realize that his puzzle, too, might be missing a piece.
    Finally, the city's finest mounted their stallions and raced off to another emergency, sirens blaring.

And the first shall be last.
Heading back into the building, the old woman with the big bag was last.

     By that time, it was just minutes until noon when the residents would expect to be served. Doug and I were feeling the pressure. I don't know why no one thought to make an announcement that lunch would be 10 minutes late!
     Anyway, those quiches were HUGE when Doug pulled them out of the oven—and they were brown on top, but no harm done! A few residents never heard of quiche, but none of them turned it down, and most of them asked for seconds.
     The usual little boy and his dad weren't there, but we have a new boy who is 12. I met him last Friday. He wasn't at lunch today, though he was at the fire drill. He's an enormous child (apparently food-driven), so I assume he and his mother had a better place to grab "a bite." Lord knows, we didn't have enough quiche for that one.
     Fancy Lady was very late to lunch, and there were only two small slices left when she arrived. She was happy to get them.
     Come Tuesday, Doug will be on vacation again. I don't know if I want to work the kitchen next week or not. Things are so shaky there that I have come to wonder how long this shelter can exist. Perhaps it would be good for the hierarchy to see how things work when neither Doug nor I am there (Doug says I hold the place up—I don't). But during his last time off, they ran out of bread and paper bags... and heaven knows what else. The kitchen is not at all well run unless Doug is there. He, too, has wondered if the place might crumble soon. It's interesting that we've both had those thoughts.
     Too, our supplies are more and more donations. Expired drink cans show the wear and tear of having been tossed around; some have sprung a minuscule leak and are empty. Some loaves of bread have molded, and much of it is stale. I know it's a homeless shelter, and I know those PBJs are for the street people, but Fido often fares better. Our quality of service has diminished enormously since my return in November, and it was nothing to brag about then.
     We made 25 PBJ sacks today (50 sandwiches), and 18 lunch sacks (36 meat sandwiches). Geeze! I think we forgot to make breakfast sacks! Oh, well...
     Doug fried okra and made a pot of mashed potatoes to go with the dinner pork chops. We filled 32 plates and put them in the warming oven. He was determined to get out of there by 2 o'clock, and I think he made it.

Twenty-five sacks of PBJs can leave a person winded.