Tuesday, November 13, 2007

[pan] handling anger

The man, the woman and the dog went for a walk this morning, stopping for coffee (and innumerable foreign smells).

As we settled around a sidewalk table with our coffee, a panhandler was hooting, singing, shouting, dancing his call for a sandwich: "I'm starving," he yells, clapping his hands, "I need a sandwich, someone please give me a samdwich, hoot hoot, holler holler!"

Richard has a firm: "I can't help you" policy.
He'll give the shirt off his back to someone he knows who needs it, tithe-plus to the church, or spend a kajillion dollars making meals for the ill and/or homebound. But come up to him on the street, jab him in the chest and demand money... and he "bows-up" and says, "You want some of this? 'Cause I'll give you some of this..." which causes all sober and semi-sober panhandlers to flee. (There was this one time on Market St when he beat the be-jezus out of a scary man, but it was the scary man's fault for grabbing me and then attacking Richard and I'll blog about it later.)

I'm with Richard, via the long and tender-hearted winding road. A lifetime of giving to panhandlers has left me with the sad assumption that people asking for diapers, a sandwich or gasoline, are really asking for drug money. This is based on going and getting diapers for the lady asking for them, only to be told: "Oh yeah, well, really I need money for special diapers for my baby," as she refuses the diapers I offer her.

Multiply that by 1,000 different encounters, and I'm finally on Richard's page.

So, we're having coffee near the hooting man.
We're trying to talk to each other, but LITERALLY I can not hear nor process Richard's words because of Singing Sandwich Man, who keeps shouting and dancing.

In the time we're there, here's what happens:
* a woman gives him a fresh muffin from the bakery, and he says "oh yeah, well, if only I had something to wash this down with." Totally dissing her.
* two men give him coffee, and he says, "I'm hungry man, I'm starving, I need a sandwich!" (Hello, doesn't this help you wash down that muffin?)
* a woman pushing a baby gives him money -- a wad of bills -- and he says, "Is that all you're giving me?"
* rage builds in the robin

I want to jump up and beat this shouting, dancing scam-artist to the ground, saying "You @#$%&!! poser! Get a job!"
Does this mean I'm becoming a Republican?

Wednesday, November 07, 2007

Post your caption here



Chef Sucks would be one title, if I didn't love him so much, and if he weren't such a good chef.

When Ricky found out the church's food pantry was running low, he went to work. (Our church has a commercial freezer intended to hold home-made meals for people who are ill, recovering from an accident, grieving, or otherwise in need of a quick and easy reheatable meal.)

Our normally busy Italian Kitchen became a super-busy Super-Tuscan Commercial Kitchen. Meals were debated, recipes were tested, storage and re-heating options were explored. A trip to Kamei Restuarant Supply (bow worshipfully, please) was undertaken, with pomp, circumstance and success.

Finally, everything was assembled and a large quantity of new potatoes, pureed dill carrots and home-made Italian Meatloaf (Aunt Ida Large's recipe, I believe) were created. For our vegetarian friends, this is not the meal for you -- however, the delicious carrots are veganific.

The final steps were the creation of full-cover packaging, including digital photos of the finished meal, a USDA-approved ingredient list and the all-important re-heating instructions. The finishing touch? Richard with a straw in the freezer-lock baggie, sucking out all the air to create a vacuum that protects the food from icy freezer burn.

I'm maried to a genius, but we knew that.
Kitchen Paoli strikes again.