A small service

“You know if I’m not doing this right, it’s because we don’t eat red meat”, I said removing a stack of beef patties from the cold cardboard box. “Actually, I prefer to be vegetarian, but my family enjoys chicken and fish.”

“So do you eat Kosher meat then?” Ms. B inquired.

I smiled politely but of course she could not see it behind my mask. I shook my head and said “No, not Kosher meat.”

“Then are you Muslim?”

I was trying to suppress a smile, but figured it was a reasonable question after all.

“Well, it’s not really because I am religious” (why would she care, this was TMI I thought to myself). “No, I am not a Muslim, we are Hindus and don’t eat beef.”

She seemed to understand and showed me how she would season the patty. I followed suit and soon we had a brisk assembly line between my teenager and I lining the large metal trays with a brown baking sheet, laying the patties in a 3 x 4 pattern and seasoning them. I continued with this task, as he took on a large pot of cooked chicken that need to be cleaned of any fat or bones – or as the kitchen supervisor Ms. B put it “anything that you wouldn’t eat you, you clean it out and throw it away!” That was simple enough to do for my “I-can-make-cereal-and-toast” teenager.

We were volunteering in the kitchen of a local non-profit organization that provides amongst other services, meals and housing to the homeless. For my teen it was a way to earn additional community service hours in high school, and I hoped, an insight into the fact that good health, plentiful food and a house were a blessing to have. For me, I was trying to do something tangible after months, maybe even years of feeling like I wanted to give back to the community but always me, my family, my work came first. After reading in The Pause Principle (by Kevin Cashman) “…..the classic midlife crisis is the gut-wrenching realization that well-earned achievement and competence in the absence of meaningful contribution is not enough. It is the anxiety-provoking realization that our strengths have not been in the service of something bigger….”, I was jolted into action.

Arriving at the service center I had made mental note to myself that this was not home, nor was this my work-from-home job so I was not in charge and needed to act accordingly. “How many people are expected tonight for dinner?” I asked Ms. B. “About 140” she responded. Reading off the box label, I said “There are 60 pieces which means we will need a bit more than the two boxes that are here.  Maybe half of another box?” She agreed and brought in another box. Later as my teen and I stacked the trays into the tall slotted rack, we calculated we already had 13 trays with 12 patties each. Peering hard at the box label, the number seemed more like 80. We were not going to need the third box after all, and not wanting to waste any food I requested another staff member who obligingly put it away in the freezer. Of course then a fretting Ms. B promptly brought the box back. I explained the confusion between 60 and 80 on the label which seemed to placate her. So much for my mental note!

The long afternoon volunteer shift gave me ample time to observe and absorb my surroundings. My fingers touched the pinkish meat, black-and-white seasoning, red juicy tomatoes, white onions and light green lettuce but other than feeling a bit inexperienced my gloved fingers couldn’t feel anything. The onions were notoriously hard to peel and I developed a new respect for all restaurant kitchen workers! Following the required safety protocols, I had donned one disposable nitrile glove, then a “cut glove” (made of thick fabric) and finally another disposable nitrile glove. A kindly kitchen staff member showed me how to wield the knife effectively and I gladly followed her instructions with my fat fingers.

After three hours in the hot, steamy kitchen (where the staff also made rice, meat balls, fries and cut fruit) we were ready to serve the meal. To my satisfaction I had not touched my phone in the time that had passed. I felt famished however, being caffeine-deprived since there had been no “chai–time” like every afternoon. My young man though was all for staying put and did an excellent job serving the buns, hamburger patties, broccoli and fries. I was on the less glamorous station serving tomatoes, onions, lettuce (which were not in demand) and cheese (which I served in multiples of two). We watched Moms with fussy kids in tow, politely request multiple plates in varying combinations; young and older men pleasantly let us know their choices. I was acutely aware that our names (written boldly on the volunteer tags on our shirts) and faces were unlike any other in the dining hall, and I was glad my teenager had this opportunity to step out of his usual cocoon of home and school.

On our way home he called his sister and happily regaled her about his volunteer experience including the time he rolled his eyes when Mom said something  “adultish and unnecessary”. I enjoyed his prattle, mentally making plans to return someday with a group, and will report back to y’all if we actually do serve roti and rajma, chicken curry and rice😊

~AK Irvinekar