OPEN, SESAME!

       Doug's first order was that I should make the soup. The mystery box appeared well stocked, but after removing what I could use, there were many cans of evaporated milk and beets taking up space in there. So I asked him who was keeping the gate, and could we get into the pantry. That's when he proudly showed me his personal key. He finally got a master key! THAT only took 18 months…
       Eventually, I filled a large pot with soup makings and let it simmer for about an hour. I added curly noodles to fill it out, and we served it with our hallmark death-in-a-tub chicken salad and some fruit. Nobody complained, and only one person asked "What is it?" of the chicken salad. Many extra servings went out, and our 500-pound fellow had at least two meals, including the one plate I made with a can of sardines.
       We had three little kids today, and I enjoyed giving them stuffed toys. Also, there was enough gum in the goody box to put a pack on every plate. I think we served about 40 diners. The pre-release group was so small that Doug was sure the next group would be too—but he was wrong, and he and BOB had to jump in and help me serve. BOB still shows up after church, and he wants me to stay longer because he doesn't get there in time to spend enough time with me. I'm thinking he's wanting to save my soul, but the Devil has already spoken for that! Today, BOB was singing a hymn, and I swear he sounds just like Johnny Mathis.  I don't think he's ever heard of Johnny (I must be a lot older than I realize), but he sounds like Johnny.
       On the gossip front, Mr. Huggy did not have a heart attack, but his blood sugar had run low. He came cruising thru the kitchen around 12:30 and I gave him a wide berth (even Doug noticed), which turned out to be an even better decision than I thought—Doug said the man's in dire need of a bath!
       The goofy guy who was such a pest last week didn't show up, but Miss Lillian is due back in very soon, so I imagine I'll hear some grumbling about that next week. Doug is expecting Lillian to stroll in there and come down hard on him for how he's managing the kitchen (his kitchen). This will be interesting.
       We have two new gatekeepers, a young woman and an older man. I saw the young woman today, and she's very shy, which begs the question of how she can manage people who live on the edge.
       In my nearly 5 years there, I've seen many changes—and very few. I think I'll go back next week.

THE DREGS

       Five days will not cure jet lag; drinking doesn't help jet lag; and after partying late last night and sleeping little, all Miss Joy had to offer the shelter kitchen was the dregs. Oddly, that was exactly what the kitchen offered me…
       Doug met me with tons of hugs and welcome homes. That was dear! Then he introduced me to a new guy who hopes to assume a part-time position there and who is a wonderful worker. He also introduced me to another fellow who never did anything that I could see, other than get in my way and want to talk. Kinda hoping that fellow will find something else to do on Sundays.
       I have never seen the kitchen as dirty as it was this morning. All I could do was get a rag, some spray, and wipe things down, but the crumbs and old sticky dirt are still there in the cracks and crevices. Then Doug swept and mopped, and things looked better, but WHY was it like that?
       We had Doug's potato soup, chicken salad, fruit cocktail, and some leftover dinners from last night. There was more than enough because, as I implied, there were few at lunch, and they were a sad lot. Of the 20 we served, there was only one woman in each group, and the homeless one took a look at the food, turned up her nose and left. It's colder now… and yesterday's group was a herd, Doug said, so we expected large numbers today.
       Bad Ass is gone. He was set free early, due to bureaucratic bungling, and word has it that he was pushing drugs AT the shelter even before he left… so I imagine he'll be returning to his comfort zone before long… Little Chief leaves tomorrow, but another "Indian" is due in this week, and the staff's been warned to tread lightly.
       A new pre-release came waddling to the counter well after his group had eaten and gone. When I asked for his bed number, he said, "I'm a pre-release." So I told him he was quite late, and he said he knew… eyeing the food as if it might not suit him—all 500 pounds of him already sporting a pace maker and not yet 30.
       Cutie Gatekeeper has left for greener pastures, and Crusty Old Broad was keeping the gate. I hadn't seen her in many months. She, too, is a very good eater.
       Mr. Huggy waltzed in the other day, white as a sheet, and was sent post haste to hospital with another heart attack. He hasn't been bringing goodies, so that bin was nearly empty. I cleaned it and washed out the sticky goo in the bottom.
       Miss Lillian is expecting to return from her recent surgery. She still comes by from time to time, and this week Doug said 2 large stacks of styrofoam plates just disappeared. He continues to be amazed by these activities, but deep down they are no surprise.
       The little boy and girl who were there when I left are still there, sadly. They were not at lunch today, so I assume they had a happier place to be.
       Some of the homeless men are repeats from last winter. I must assume they've been "out and about" during summer and have come in for the winter. Two appear to take some pride in their appearance; the others are a motley crew. In fact, Little Chief was the only pre-release who showed well today; the others were dragging.
       Just as well. I was dragging too.
       

SHALOM

     "and even when you say good-bye, you say good-bye with shalom"…

       My vacation is happening again. It was HARD to leave today. Bad-Ass-Tats was in full form and totally lovable. He wanted chicken and dumplings (after I figured out he was calling dumplings "pasta"). He gave me the verbal recipe and demonstrated the rolling out and cutting of the "pasta." I promised him that if he is still there when I get back, I'll make that for him. Everyone was happy. There were donated pans of rice and chicken (some sort of oriental dish). I took a picture of it with my new phone, but I'm too stupid to work the damn thing. I live for the day I get back from vacation and stuff this fancy piece of frou-frou in a dark drawer!

      So we served the oriental foods and leftover plates from yesterday. I put some applesauce and blueberry pie filling on the side. Doug asked me to make a small pot of soup, just in case. As it turned out, the food was nearly all consumed; nobody left hungry, and many stopped by the counter to say thank you.

       The wee children were there again, and again they enjoyed their gum, toys, and durt-de-durs. The games were on! When I told them I'll be going on vacation this week, and I hope they have a lovely home of their own by the time I return, they were sad. They're young enough to think they're already AT home. Sweet.

       Doug squeezed me to death, loves me dearly, will miss me greatly. He'll email. Ho boy, this is hard. In so many ways, I don't want to go, but I must go.

       So please wait for me. You can sign up for email alerts when there is a new blog, and when my journey is over later in the fall, God willing, I'll be back in my kitchen with my people. The email signup box is BELOW the "followers" box--and it's MUCH easier than being a Follower—takes 10 seconds and doesn't ask that you remember your password (WHO remembers THOSE?).

     Too, on the off chance that I find a service opportunity while I am on vacation, I will consider posting it here—hungry people are hungry people are hungry people. — Shalom

NEW MOON FIRE CEREMONY (A Native American Ritual)

      Doug was in his place this morning. He and my favorite gatekeeper were in the kitchen, and Doug was running a bunch of hams through the slicer that Dean pronounced "broken" last week. Not broken. Dean even said that Doug had never used it and wouldn't know how to fix it… yada yada yada… but none of that was true. Last week was just sour.

      THIS week was sweet! Doug began by ragging on me, "Miss Joy, I'm not helping you one bit. You're on your own; I have these hams to slice."

       Some of that was true, but it was nothing like last week. Doug had chicken salad in the fridge and plenty of fruit cocktail. The only thing I needed to invent was a third dish. Pickin's were slim. I decided on a huge pot of curly egg noodles and set one on to boil with a large chunk of butter in it. I put a lid on the pot to encourage boiling. Then I began to forage for the herbs. I wanted parsley and basil.

       Doug told me that we were going to have a fire drill, so again it was nice to be prepared for that. Then that little wispy blonde who's working off service hours came to make the PBJ sacks—poor little airhead. So there we were, all of us well occupied. The hams were sliced and Doug was putting out drinks and tidying the dining room. I still had my head in the spice cabinet, searching for the basil when Doug shouted, "Miss Joy! FIRE!"

       You know, those huge pots of buttery water will boil over if you put a lid on them… and the buttery water will cause the gas stove's flame to rise quite high. It was as high as a small bonfire.

       Doug turned off the burner and the flames subsided, but by then the fire alarm was blaring. We weren't sure if my fire had set off the alarm or if Gatekeeper had set it off, as it was time for that. Sadly, it was my fire. Happily, Gatekeeper had already alerted the fire department to ignore our alarm—or was that almost tragic?

       Airhead hadn't experienced one of our drills, so she got her purse and stood on the back porch. All I got was my sunglasses. Then we told Airhead to follow us across the street. Slowly, so slowly, the pre-release and resident homeless men emerged from the downstairs, and after quite a long while, a few women and children appeared in the parking lot out front. The groups didn't amount to much, and I'm betting a lot of folks just didn't come out. They are a motley crew—some in flannel pajama bottoms, one combing her hair, some rubbing their eyes from being awakened at 11:00. And I searched especially for Bad-Ass-Tats. I never saw him in the group on the sidewalk.

       When it was over, everyone returned to the shelter, and at 11:30 we began serving the pre-release. Bad-Ass was one of the first, and today he thinks he's hotter 'n a firecracker. He was flirty and talkative and had nothing bad to say about the food. Then I saw our other "Indian" come in, and I watched—oh, so intensely. The other fellow is much younger than Bad-Ass and a whole lot better looking. They greeted each other with laughter and some body nudges, like bumping shoulders. I was mesmerized. Then Bad-Ass began bragging (not to me, but to anyone and everyone) that he was the "Big Chief" and the other one was the "Little Chief." Their age difference alone verified that stance, no power play intended.

       I couldn't wait to get Doug alone and ask him about the Indian relationship. "Oh!" he said, "They're best friends!" Now isn't that just precious?

       Very late, a mother with two little ones, a boy and girl about 4 and 5, came to lunch. The chicken salad was all gone, but I fixed them up with BBQ sandwiches, pasta and fruit. Everyone got little candies today because the goodie bins are full again! And the little ones got a stuffed toy and bubbles and gum. They were so thrilled. The 4-year-old boy took the gum (not yet knowing that bubbles were in the offing) and said, "Thank you!" That was a first. I've had a very few children say thank you, but this child couldn't get it out fast enough or sincerely enough. Four years old. I told him Doug could refill the bubbles when they run out, but I surely hope they don't run out on a Miss Lillian day…

       I just love it when I can smile all the way home.

COOK IS WELL LOVED!

       Before I got out the door this morning, Doug texted to say he couldn't come to work; his kid was sick. He said Dean would be there, and I assured him everything would be fine! I even believed that myself. After all, long before Doug became a fixture, Dean and I were serving Sunday lunch and enjoying it!
       But things have changed. Doug IS a fixture now. It became more and more apparent as the morning progressed. Dean greeted my first request, "What do you want me to do?" with, "You can do anything you want to do, Miss Joy. I'm not making lunch. They can even have sack lunches."
       Oh, dear. Oh, dear, dear.
       So I asked if I really could do as I pleased, and he assured me I could. The mystery box offered a half dozen new cans of soup ingredients. DEAN has a key to the pantry, and soon I had a whole SACK of soup ingredients! I told him I felt like a kid in a candy shop. The soup would be vegetable, except for a small pot into which I did not add bits of fried chicken left over from yesterday (we have a few vegetarians among the pre-release).
       There were a dozen plates of leftover fried chicken, corn, cornbread, and peas… so that gave us just a small edge over starting with nothing. Still, I made a HUGE pot of soup, and I found two fresh tubs of chicken salad in the big fridge and a large bowl of cold fruit cocktail. We served crackers on the side, and everyone got a small candy (because the goodies box had again been attended to—miracles do happen).
       Our pre-release group was downright grumpy today! Except for two cute guys who seem to like my pampering, the rest wore attitudes ranging from distant to sullen. Bad-Ass-Tats was the worst! And I'd been looking forward to "our time together." NO! He was NOT happy with his meal. "Is this all we get? You call this lunch?" Even telling him that he could have all he wanted did not change his 'tude. He wasn't in the dining room long, and I'm thinking he might be the person who left their plate on the table and walked out! That was a first for me.
       Even before they were called to lunch, a couple of the guys had tried to schmooze their way in. Dean and I stand together about that. "GET OUT!"
       Then during that lunch period, the homeless began the same schtick—first just one, then two, then another… "No! It's still not your turn and you must wait for the announcement." As I said to Dean, "WAIT FOR THE BEEP!"
       It's not that I don't want to serve these people, but when the plates aren't ready, there is no point in having them line up. Worst of all was that Dean truly did leave ALL of lunch to me. I had to design it, make it, and serve it—all 40 plates—all 15 extra bowls of soup, 10 extra plates of chicken salad, special-request "power sodas," more crackers, yet more crackers, gum for my girls, a Clorox-free rag to wipe soup off someones pants, more sodas, just an empty bowl please, and answers to questions such as "What's that white stuff?" That was the chicken salad. I explained that this particular chicken salad is known as "death in a tub" because it tastes so good and is so bad for you. The woman came back for more. Prisoners have this feeling of entitlement that I just don't get.
       Well… I hurt all over. I need to be sure to tell Doug that he was missed (the pre-release were obviously angry that their cook was not there), and that I've never fully appreciated how much back-up he gives me when I am "doing my thing."
       The Muddy Waters fellow was there mopping and helping out as needed, but not with food prep or serving. Still, I enjoyed seeing him. He's not cheerful today; rather, slow and downcast. He was limping up the sidewalk as I drove away, and I stuck my arm out the window and waved, knowing few people acknowledge him at all. What a sad place. We need Cook!

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.