SOUP & THINGS

      Doug had all the stove burners in use when I arrived. He begged my forgiveness and said he was hurrying to get his dinner dishes prepped, so he could give me "my" stove. That called for an uh-oh.

       When I was able to get to the stove, Doug handed me a large pot filled with macaroni, macaroni with ground beef/tomato something, and a bit of corn. Miss Lillian had left it last Wednesday with instructions to feed it out "as soup" on Sunday. Sigh!

       I don't kow-tow to Lillian's directions anymore, but the food smelled healthy, and it was a good base—for something…

       After scooping off about 3 pints of the macaroni, I put the rest on the stove and added two cans of spaghetti sauce and a #10 can of Veg-all. The mix was thick and stiff. I asked for bullion (of any sort), and Doug directed me to a box of wee packets of "tomato-chicken" bouillon. I cut open a half dozen of those and added them to the mix, along with a cup of water for each packet. I mean… it was SOUP! Who knew?

       Doug ate two bowls of the stuff—but I never tasted it…

       In another pot, Doug made his famous broccoli soup (made with the potato buds base) topped with grated cheese.

       On the side we served crackers, applesauce, and one chocolate candy per plate. It was not the hearty, filling lunch that we usually have, but it was quite good, and we had enough to offer seconds and thirds. Plus, we had 15 plates of fried chicken from yesterday. There was food aplenty.

       Last week, I telephoned the new head honcho (still sight unseen) and introduced myself. I had two requests for him: 1) Now that Mr. Huggy's new duties come between him and fetching snacks from the food bank, would he (the new master) please call the food bank and tell them that I am approved to get those provisions? And 2) if I could find a playing piano for our dining room, would he allow one to be brought in?

       This new director of more than a month now had no idea about the piano. "What piano?"

       "The one in the dining room," I told him. "The peddle is missing and many of the notes just don't play. I asked about replacing it last year, but I was told, 'That piano is not to be touched! It's for church!' And, frankly, I can't see how it could be for anything since it doesn't play."

       Still, Mr. Big had never laid eyes on the instrument, and he declared that he'd have to look into it—maybe somebody's dearly departed grandmother donated it and it's sacred… he suggested. He said he'd get back to me. I never expect him to.

       So today, Doug says the goodies box got filled on Thursday! (It did). Also, he said that Mr. and Mrs. Director came to the dining room and took turns trying to play the piano. They declared that it doesn't play. Maybe now he really will get back to me… Doesn't this just take you back to the days when we needed a can opener?

       Both the pre-release and the homeless groups were unusually upbeat and ate very well. Only one child came—the 14-year-old—but she brightened my day with her cheer. Bad-Ass had a 4-hour pass, and to tell you the truth, I was disappointed that I didn't get to see him. When all was said and done, that Muddy Waters fellow came thru the kitchen with a sack of trash, and I was compelled to ask him, "You put any words down?"

       "Yeah! I done laid 'em down," he answered proudly.

       "Good man!"

       "Yes, ma'am!"

MUDDY WATERS & THE FROG'S ASS

       I met Muddy Waters in a dark Atlanta dive around 1966. He was sitting on a short stool, playing his guitar, and crying his heart out with his version of "Cocaine." Sweat was pouring off him, and he could see it in my eyes that I wanted to play like that too. (Historically, none of my recollection can be corroborated.)

       But this morning at the shelter, a tall, black man wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat was busying himself around the back of the kitchen, and then he swept the dining room. After that, he cleaned the back porch. He was never silent, and as I listened to his words, mostly spoken, I could hear lyrics that belong only to the brilliant and famous. Homeless, there he was owning the brilliance.

       "Can you write?" I asked him. He looked a bit confused. "Can you use a pencil and write words on paper?"

       "Oh, no, ma'am," he said.

       So I explained to him about his words and how I felt about them—how they sounded like something Muddy Waters might have sung. I told him that his words were wonderfully brilliant and that anyone could put them down on paper for him, or record them for him. It sounds so simple, but then getting the words to the artists who would make them famous—well…

       It just set me to thinking: How many great abilities are locked in homeless shelters?

       Saving the best for last, I will report on lunch now. We had a simple meal of chicken salad, baked beans, tossed salad, sliced tomatoes, and fruit.

       The little girl (now 9), and the younger teen were at lunch, and I enjoyed having Beanies and gum for them. I was disappointed to hear that the 17-year-old is in Florida (no reason given), and is not volunteering at the police station. Maybe Florida will be even better for her. Both the pre-release and the homeless groups were of good cheer and quite chatty today.

       A group of 3 or 4 pre-release ordered pizzas and set up a table for themselves for that. It was cute how they put out napkins, forks, cups, and plates—like little homemakers or party planners. Bad-Ass Tats was front and center in that group. Doug says Bad-Ass is a really nice fellow, and he likes him a lot. And Bad-Ass admits to having shot a law officer, 30-some years ago—which surely earns him "points" in his group.

       So the story of the week involves that idiot woman ("Brenda") who used to annoy me on Sundays by taking up my worktable to make PBJs… because the lady she had been making them with could no longer come on Thursdays… I never got that. This 50-some-year-old woman is one of those rare people who lives a singular life in every way. She will not put fake sugar in her mouth, or drink sodas, or eat bread from the store. She makes her own bread from freeze-dried zucchini… She does eat chocolate and she does dye her hair an unreal shade of pitch black. Anyway, a few weeks after she came into my life at the Sunday worktable, she took a position of gatekeeper. I cannot imagine her "managing" prisoners and drug addicts, but she's held the spot for quite awhile now. She works night shifts which include the breakfast hour.

       One morning last week, Doug was serving breakfast to the pre-release when Brenda came to the kitchen. She immediately spotted Bad-Ass wearing "shorts." Shorts are not allowed in the dining area. These shorts however, are more than knee-length, and this IS July. Still, to Brenda, rules are rules, and her mouth popped open like a blast furnace on steroids, "Mr. Tanner, we're not allowed to serve you breakfast unless you put trousers on."

       "What the hell's trousers?" he asked.

       Perfect person that she is, Brenda went into a long, serious description of trousers.

       Bad-Ass was unshaken. "You know how frogs have a big bump on the scruff of their ass and they're always trying to scrape it off? You're like that bump."

       Brenda must've been high on zucchini bread when she said, kindly, "Thank you for the compliment." Breakfast went on without further ado.

       To be perfectly honest: I often feel cheated that I get only a few hours there on Sundays.

THISTLES & THRILLS

       Doug was working on dinner prep when I arrived: peas & carrots, sweet potato casserole, rolls & meatloaf with gravy. It took him about 30 minutes to have all of that food in the ovens and the steamer. Dinner was ready by the time lunch was.

       Lunch was again an unknown. He was cleaning out the freezer and giving thought to both meals. Finally, he said lunch would be chicken nuggets, okra & egg rolls—all deep-fried. Of course I suggested soup—something needed to be greaseless… didn't it? He said if I could find anything to make soup with, I was welcome to try, and he said we'd need a big pot of it because it was chilly this morning (can you believe it???) and most of the folks were in-house.

       On my knees, several times, I dug through the mystery box. It hadn't changed much from last week, but there were two tiny cans of chicken. There were also many cans of beans (red beans, black beans, soft red beans, light red beans, almost-black beans…). I took all of those and three large cans of spaghetti sauce for my starter. I added freshly chopped onion and celery, and lots of water. I thought it would never come to a boil. Meanwhile, I found three cans of chicken and rice soup (the source of the chicken broth I wanted). I strained the solid contents out of the cans and added the broth to my soup. The rice and chicken were set aside. Then I boiled a pot of elbow macaroni. When the basic soup finally boiled, I added the macaroni and its water as well as the rice. Then I turned off the heat. The taste tests went well.

       [Unless something miraculous happens with the mystery box, next week's soup would need to be made from canned salmon, condensed milk, sauerkraut, and pork 'n beans. I'll need a recipe for that, so feel free to contribute yours.]

       Just as Doug was dropping his first basket of nuggets, Gatekeeper called to say we were having a fire drill in 5 minutes. I loved being on the inside of that surprise! (New tidbit I learned: any homeless resident caught in the building during a fire drill is put out.)

       When the horrible racket was set off, Doug and I exited the back door, down the steps and across the street to the sidewalk where I saw a beautiful purple thistle blooming and thriving among the shrubs. The pre-release were close behind us as they emerged from the basement like ants. One man in particular drew my attention. He's what the locals refer to as "an Indian," meaning Native American. There are many and varying tribes, and this man has made the name of his tribe well known. That's because we have another "Indian" at the shelter from a different tribe, and they are known to be enemies, according to Doug.

       The homeless shuffled out the front door and into the parking lot, one with a walker. Gatekeeper and Doug had a clipboard for making the head count. I noticed they were "still waiting" for one fellow,  but he finally crawled out, rubbing his sleepy eyes. When all were accounted for, it was over.

       But here's the deal: the new guy caught my eye because he is literally covered in tattoos. His skin is quite dark, so the tats blend in well, but he is covered, from his neck to his feet. There are faces of several beautiful woman on one arm, and I did wonder what roles they'd played in his life. So later, when Doug brought him to my attention, I was familiar with the man of whom he spoke. "He's been in prison 35 years," Doug said. "He broke his shackles and has attacked four guards. He is volatile and will 'go off' easily, so we are especially concerned about our other Indian."

       Just as Doug finished enlightening me, Bad-Ass Tats came to the counter to ask a question. Lunch was way over and I heard Doug say something about "no food." Scared me speechless. I happened to have a plate of food in my hand, and as the guy left and Doug spoke to me, I lost my grip, and the food went flying. Doug doubled over laughing! As it turned out, the man was wanting to take food out of the dining room, and Doug was just giving him the low-down on the rules. Still… send prayers.

       Everyone ate well today. Even those of us in the kitchen did some serious nibbling. When the last group had thinned out, BOB arrived to help during the afternoon. He'll be making sack lunches. He, too, was hungry. And the Christians brought their bread donation, but I was too busy to get to speak with them.

       Our young police-department volunteer begins her experience with that next week. I told her I'm expecting a full report.

       So Sunday lunch at the shelter today was mostly normal (even counting the fire drill), except for Doug's Indian report. That was a doozy.

GOSSIP & GOOD FOOD

      Doug and Gatekeeper were deep into sharing the week's events, when I slipped through the back door. That tête-à-tête lasted long enough for me to put my bags away, put on my apron and wash my hands. There was nothing obvious to do except jump in and help fill the sack lunches. When the guys were through catching up, Gatekeeper left, and Doug said to me, "You see what you're doing right there?" (making sack lunches). Well, yesterday, the Saturday Lady was doing the same thing when Dean (the custodian) came in and just took four of her sacks to take home with him! So she asked him if he was a volunteer and why did he think that was okay, and he told her she obviously didn't know who he was…"

       This is the same shtick that Lillian pulls when she needs food at home—it's there, they have plenty, she feels entitled to it. So the Saturday Lady is fairly new on the scene, but these things will not go down quietly. Not on her watch. I'm staying tuned!

       I did call Mr. Huggy last week and tell him that I would go pick up goodies at the food bank, if he could not. No, he said—after listing the many pieces of paperwork on his desk—he would go, and he did. The goodies were all Twinkies & cupcakes, but better than none! Surely we'll get another load of gum and candies eventually.

       When I asked Doug what was for lunch, he said, "I'll deep fry something." There wasn't a plan anywhere. He did have dinner in the making, but lunch was just hanging out to dry. I offered to make "the soup," but he said there wasn't time. I said there was! We still had 80 minutes. So he opened the cans that I chose from the mystery box, and I dumped them into a big pot. I added a lot of water, a cup of rice and half a bag of macaroni. It was good! It was not like any other we've had, so that made it just "the usual." Doug, himself, ate two bowls.

       On the side, we had deep-fried corn dogs, French fries, and okra. There was applesauce too. The people ate—and ate.

       The little girl and her father still live there, but I haven't seen the child in weeks. The teenagers are still there, and the older one reported that she was accepted to volunteer at the police department! I wanted more details, but we never got around to it. Maybe next week.

       Some benevolent soul has "donated" a TON of soft drinks to the shelter. They are a brand previously unknown to us. The cans read enticingly—no sugar, no fake sugar, no caffeine—and the label is intended to lure our thirst (for orange or pineapple, for example), with no downside. Bottom line: this is fruit-flavored seltzer water, and the flavoring has been used very sparingly. No one will drink them. I tried a tiny can of "orange drink," and Doug offered me a sip of one in "pineapple." No sale. So no wonder they've been "donated." Sadly, these things cannot even be used at a pig farm, but I suppose the cans could be recycled… if the shelter practiced recycling…

       Miss Lillian was back at her post last week, "miraculously healed," according to Doug. Sadly, the health department showed up on Lillian's third day… and of course Doug had to take the fall for the missing 3 points. There's no news on the new head cheese—and I've stopped expecting any. He's warming that chair until gold-watch day, so no need to make waves.

      Poor Saturday Lady is so hell-bent on making waves that she asked Doug, "Has a volunteer ever been fired?" Between the two of us, we'll surely find out, in time.

YES, WE HAVE NO BANANAS

       I could smell 'em as I set foot in the pantry to hang up my bags. Bananas! There were two crates full in the pantry and more in the walk-in fridge. There was a bowlful on the serving counter. Some "most benevolent" grocer had donated those over-ripe bananas after they were marked "spoiled" and "use by July 4." Those who donate often assume that the shelter will take (eat) anything. Doug heaved one crate over the back rail and into the dumpster. I scrambled to save a dozen bananas, and did find enough to add to some leftover fruit cocktail, making exactly enough fruit to serve today's entire crowd. Nothing to brag about.

       Miss Lillian popped by on Thursday to get supplies for her holiday cookout. No end to her feelings of entitlement. Otherwise, I've no news on her. Mr. Huggy has apparently stopped making any trips to the food bank where he used to get goodies and other things for us. So we haven't seen goodies in several weeks. My stash is down to nearly nothing.

       Doug tried to get pimento cheese from the supply house but they claimed they'd never heard of it… so we just had tuna salad sandwiches, but they were fresh. I took 5 cans (135 oz.) of condensed tomato soup and added that much milk. Then it didn't look like enough, so I added two jars of spaghetti sauce and two jars of milk. It was magic! The bit of oregano and basil in the sauces added just a hint of their flavors to the soup, and when grated cheese was sprinkled on top, it was very good! We served many second helpings.

       We served the fruit salad on the side, and each sandwich was topped with a tiny American flag on a toothpick. It was a "how you can tell if they like it" day—everyone laughing and enjoying themselves.

       Our young Chinese fellow turned down the can of sardines, and Doug says he's learned some useful English. It seems that someone took something of his last week, and the residents were made aware of his extensive four-letter-word English vocabulary!

       The teen girls were cheerful, and I asked again if they had summer plans. The older one said she has applied at the police department for a volunteer position because she wants to be a policeman. She's almost out of high school, and I can actually see police officer all over her face! There's one problem: she's very short of stature and nearly as broad as she is tall. Maybe the department will guide her toward healthy living and encourage her to reach her goals. That would be awesome!
       Big BOB came in before I left, and helped us put together a bunch of sack lunches, then some PBJ sacks. As is his custom, he whined when I left. If he had the time, I fear, he'd be on my case again about my not going to church, so I just tell him I am tired and I need to leave—all true.

       A pretty woman was marching down the sidewalk as I went to my car in the back lot. She came across the street, excused herself, and asked if I would mind giving her a ride to a church. I had seen her at lunch, so she wasn't exactly a stranger, and she was all dressed up. So we got in the car and headed out. "It's not far at all," she said, "but I have ???? syndrome because my dad was in Vietnam and I can't tolerate much heat." The church has an interactive 1:30 service and a clothing closet for the homeless, and this woman is apparently drawn to both. I noted, as we turned the corner a block down, and two blocks farther, and yet another 2 or 3 blocks up and downhill, that her "not far" was quite far for a lady in church shoes and with health issues. She thanked me sweetly when we arrived, and I wished for her a ride back to the shelter. I look forward to seeing her again next week.

      It was a marvelous morning, very busy, full of good will and cheer. Wish you were here.

P.S. Doug refused to taste my soup as he "hates all things tomato!" I was forced to remind him of what he put in his mouth last week!

OH…POSSUM!

       Within minutes of my arrival Doug started in on his story of the week. There's a new "Indian" among the pre-release. I think Doug enjoys those folks—perhaps because they bring a bit of cultural color to the group. That was surely the case yesterday when the new fellow's grandmother came to the dining room and proudly presented her best dish to Doug. BOB was working too, and the woman told Doug there was more than enough to share, "Be sure to give your friend half!"

       It looked like two big hamburgers with a fried egg sandwiched between them. Doug got a knife and cut off a small bite. BOB took a bigger bite. The woman waited expectantly as the men tasted her masterpiece. Doug put his best foot forward, chewed, and painfully swallowed. Then he lied outright and told Grandma it was great. BOB, having the advantage of not being in the spotlight, turned his back and deposited his whole mouthful in the trash.

       There were "gritty things" in the meat and there was corn. The corn we assume was to help disguise the gritty elements. The fried egg was no doubt just a standard part of how this dish is served. Both men spent the rest of the day and night consuming various drinks and foods in an effort to get the "permanently greasy" taste out of their systems. As of noon today, Doug was still unable to shake off the taste of his one bite of opossum—I'm thinking it's engrained in his memory, and his brain is still sending signals to his palate.

       There was nothing special for me to do, so I made 52 PBJs, and Doug helped me sack them. We filled the napkin and cutlery dispensers in the dining room, and we deep fried mini-corndogs and home fries. We served fruit on the side. Nothing to brag about.

       The 8-year-old girl was reported to be with her grandmother today, but the teens were there. They've been out of school for a couple of weeks now, but have nothing lined up to do this summer (one is 17—hello...), so I suggested they volunteer with younger kids at a youth center, adding how nice that would look on their resumes. They wanted to know how to do that. I told them to catch the bus, ride to the youth center, walk in, and volunteer. This isn't going to happen, but I've done my best.

       A wispy little blonde came in around noon to work off some of her 100 service hours, and Doug put her to work making sack lunches. Well, I put her to work on those. Doug was twisted in knots over having to show her how, because she's one of those special people who lives just outside of reality. She'd brought with her some homemade chocolate (Doug gagged on it) and a quart jar of bright blue algae water. Doug drank some, because the girl swore it would wash away the opossum taste.

       For next week, Doug said he wanted to do something different because it's a holiday weekend. He was thinking about making hamburgers. Suddenly realizing the effort that would take, he stopped himself, "I ain't makin' them no hamburgers!" So I suggested pimento cheese sandwiches (a summer kind of thing), and he added tuna salad sandwiches (salad accidently ordered last week). He said he'd order some pickles and give them chips on the side. I suggested we also serve cream of tomato soup with cheese. Now I have to find someone willing to donate five or six #10 cans of tomato soup. What was I thinking?

       The new head honcho has made a second appearance and commented on Doug's extra-clean kitchen. Just 4 years from retirement, we don't expect him to get his hands too dirty. The gatekeepers are down to four, but only three full-time: the cute one, the large one (both very nice guys) and that crazy woman who used to hog my work table (the one who makes her own bread with dried zucchini). SHE called Doug in on the carpet last week for not "rotating his foods," which had something to do with an older gallon of milk being unopened when a newer one was open. That issue was quickly settled, as the woman has no business in the kitchen, and Doug has no control over those who plunder the kitchen during his off hours.

       Miss Lillian is coming back tomorrow. One is torn between celebrating her improved health and dreading her presence. Then one is completely blown away to hear that Doug is required to go in (on his day off) and help Lillian get all of her supplies ready for cooking, as she isn't well enough to lift some things. Gimme a W, gimme a T…

ORDINARY DAYS ARE GOOD

      There was virtually no scuttlebutt today, and that left the morning wide open for more uplifting endeavors. But, just so you know, Miss Lillian is seeing her doctor again next week and she'll get back to the boss about whether or not she'll be returning. I see a disability claim in her future… and Mr. Huggy did not go to the pantry this week, so the goody bin is empty. It's so empty that Doug washed it!

       A young woman came to work off some service hours, and Doug put her to the task of making sack lunches, then PBJs. She was sentenced to 40 hours of community service and is to serve all of them this week. Sobriety can be an illusive thing.

       Doug didn't have a plan for lunch, but he did have chicken salad and egg salad and plenty of canned fruit, so I raided the mystery box and made "the soup." Unless that box gets a visit from the canned-goods fairy, I won't be making soup next week… unless someone has a recipe for salmon/evaporated milk/beets & sauerkraut soup.

       The pre-release numbered 8 or 10, and the big man with the cane called to me after he'd begun eating, "Ma'am, the soup's real good!" That was sweet.

       We have a flaming queen in that group, and he came to lunch today wearing what appeared to be camouflage pajama bottoms, a skuzzy t-shirt, and cheap flip-flops. Doug was in a bit of a snit early on because someone in the hierarchy had ordered him to monitor what people are wearing—they'd seen a child come to the dining room wearing bedroom slippers. That is not in his job description, and he's not shy about saying so.

       Our homeless numbered about 25. The Chinese fellow took the sardines I offered him… I do wonder what the game plan is for him. We still have the two teen girls, but the little ones from previous weeks are all gone. In their stead is a very pretty 8-year-old girl. I gave her a Beanie bear and she was quick with her thank-you! Later, she came to the counter and said, "Thank you, again!" Someone is doing something right with her.

       The Christians came with an enormous donation, and we shot some hoops with the bags of hard rolls, but Doug will serve the sweets for snacks and give the other breads to a friend for their chickens.

       The new head honcho took over this week, but there isn't any news about him. I'm sure that in time, he'll make an impression, one way or another.