Community Kitchen Fun

The community kitchen is a fun place. Now, I understand how some people would assume the opposite. But if you go down there, and serve those people, just try not to smile. It’s impossible. The stories you hear, the people you see, it’s just a great experience. This morning my mother woke me up at an ungodly hour as usual. I sat up and took the better part of three minutes to realize where I was. Wiping away the crust that had accumulated around my eyeball was a difficult task at 5:57. Throwing on a shirt and just making it into my shoes, I fought the urge to sit down. And close my eyes… And go to sleep… I was unsuccessful. As I awoke the second time, my mother offered words of encouragement as she escorted me out the door and into the van. You would think that at this time of year that it would be hot in the morning. It’s hot in the day. It’s hot in the evening. It’s hot at night. It’s hot when you wake up from having that same scary, recurring dream at 1:43. But in the morning? Nooooo, let’s throw a curveball and slap everyone in the face when they try and go serve hungry people. Very discouraging. Anyway, I don’t remember the ride over there. But when we did get there, my mother began to greet the people on the street, the people on the sidewalk, the guy holding the door open, the guy making the grits, the guy that greeted her. I grunted a greeting as well, and I believe I made myself very clear. First order of business was turkey. Now, please realize that up until twenty minutes ago, I was unaware I would even be here this morning. I am tired, half awake, unsure which part of my dream was real last night, and moving very slow. So the head guy in charge naturally tells us to prep turkeys. Not to brag or anything, but I’m a pretty mean turkey prepper. I prepped about twenty turkeys one day, with very little help. But, as previously mentioned, this is not day. This is morning. So, of course being the muscular chap I am, I had to haul the turkey bags from the sink to their final resting place. There was a hole in the bag, and I hope that the blood did not stain the floor. I then proceeded to cut open the bags, exposing the cold, dead flesh of the hefty young foul. My mother than proceeded to reach into what used to be the neck, and remove a bag. I knew the contents of this bag, but was lucky enough never to have seen it for myself. But then, at that terrible moment, the bag tore, and I was staring at it. The neck, a slimy tube I could hardly believe could support a head, resembled a large, bloody, bloated, dead worm. The lungs and/or kidneys which looked just like lungs and/or kidneys, only smaller and covered in blood. He was obviously not a donor. And the heart. The poor little meaty thing that had kept blood running through this young turkey, had allowed him to gobble, to spread his tail feathers and attract ladies. To power his legs that obviously did him no good in escaping the hand/machine that had ended his life, and in his prime, no doubt, as the bag stated. It was really gross. We washed turkeys, held back bile, and removed the life-giving organs of these poor beasts. After that was done, and a long hand washing had ensued, I went to the front lines to serve toast. Now, the thing you should know is on the line, you are exposed to EVERYTHING. Comments: On your hair, smile, apron, and anything else they can see from the waist up. Questions: “you got sugar?”
“you got salt?”
“where‘s the milk?”
“what‘s your name”
“why is this burnt?”
“why don‘t you cook with sugar?”.
Complaints: “there‘s no sugar!”
“they started a fight!”
“I need to talk to Miss Vera!”
“this food is cold!”
“why don‘t you cook with sugar?!”
But, it is still enjoyable. Passing out bread to the patrons, hearing their life’s stories, and today, hearing multiple versions of how a building burned down. From what all I heard, this is what was believed to have happened: There was a short, skinny white guy who no one knew the name of. He was drunk, and high, and decided to light a pile of clothes on fire for an unknown reason. There also happened to be spray paint cans in the building, along with quite a few more highly flammable objects. These exploded under the heat, and the building went down quite quickly. When the police arrived, they located the perpetrator. They then used night sticks to beat him to death, after which the ambulance workers used the defibrillator to bring the poor soul back to life, only to incarcerate him afterwards. Last night was quite a night I suppose. After we had served nigh a hundred and fifty patrons, I grabbed a granola bar, a soda, and headed home. My mother was skeptical of the true story of the building fire, but I really believe it. A skinny white guy. Blew it up. Then got beat to death. And brought back to life. Like law and order. I was drifting away on the way home, and when I got back I crawled right back into bed and picked up where I left off. The funny thing is, I’m not entirely sure what has actually happened today, and what was a dream… I guess I’ll ask the blue elephant that’s doing the spelling check for me.