Last Night at the Meal Program

If I was an astute observer, erudite, I’d opine about the events of this morning in Minneapolis, but I have no words to bring to that supper, so instead I’ll tell you about the challenge of asking 68 people whether they wanted fried onions on their burger before I gave them a scoop (or two) of the macaroni and ham casserole, and passed their plate to the woman next to me who asked them about cheese on their burger and offered a potato concoction, revved up in the kitchen by Miss Pat, after some poor soul, helping out, opened dozens of cans of potatoes and drained them in a big colander for her to work her magic, but before that we sliced a dozen loaves of donated sweet breads, resisting the urge to pop the rugged edges in our mouths, and then emptied bags of carrots on a platter, and then so carefully chopped off the greying edges of celery stalks, an effort unnoticed by the long line of patient people fresh from the streets stiff with cold, one woman’s car double parked while she ate, the passenger side crammed full of bags and clothing and the other accoutrements of home.