We Can See Lanai from the Lanai

This is the second ful day on Maui with my friends Judy and Fran. The weather is perfect, although there is heavy rain in the pali valleys. That's where the flash floods are that you see in the weather reports. The floods dash the hopes of any would-be hikers, but that's not us, so we don't care.

I see heavy clouds over Haleakala, too.

Yesterday we bought new outfits at Macys, stocked the kitchen, and took a king salmon to my housekeeper, Carmen. She takes wonderful care of this condo and nothing makes her happier than a whole fish (well, it's been beheaded and gutted).

Carmen has a large household. Like many Filipinos' homes, her roof covers her husand and herself, along with both of her grown children and their young families. She is a very energetic and thoroughly good person, a rarity, and I am so fortunate to know her.

We found mango and pineapple dessert in the refrigerator on arrival. And we casually asked about banana lumpia and cocoa mochi... I bet it they magically appear, still warm.

We have been out for a couple meals, but we'll mostly eat in. The views from the lanai are unbeatable, and this kitchen is good.

This afternoon we'll wander the elegant hotels on the Wailea side. It costs nothing to be there and take it all in. The Four Seasons and Grand Wailea are really over the top. I haven't traveled the world, but I'd bet it would be hard to find any places more elegant than those.

Tomorrow might be a boat ride. I found my friend, Tim, at the Maalaea Grill last night. He can fit us into a tour on the Hokua that isn't full and we get a good discount. I refer lots of business to him. How to describe this guy? Certainly one of the "local color." He's a bit rotund and plain, but he always has women around him. They really like him. He's mananged to stay a life-long bachelor and has that joy de vivre that most of us never quite grasp. Good on ya, Tim.

With luck, we could get an invite to one of his poolside dinners. Fresh caught ono or whatever's running. Everyone brings a side dish and beverage... so nice as the sun sets and the tradewinds blow gentle.

Beyond that, no plans. And that's the way to be. We will enjoy the comfortable chairs at the expensive hotel lobbies, watching the typical tourist scramble for activities that stress them out and empty their wallets.

Let everyone have a great time, including the timeshare salesmen, the service workers and the vendors at the gift shops!

It's Too Darned Hot!

I wonder how many blogs started with that title this week in western Washington State? We've had record temperatures here. It was over 100 degrees Farenheit in Seattle yesterday. That's never happened before.

We had record freezing temperatures last winter.

"Where's our global warming?" people were heard to say, "We can use some of that warm."

Well, now we have it.

Evenings are the worst. The kitchen is the last place I want to be with the sun coming through the bay windows. Appetite is low and it's contrary to nature to bring more heat in through the cooking devices.

The first night I waited until the sun ducked behind Scimitar Ridge, but it was almost 9:30 by the time dinner was over. The second night I wangled dinner out at an air conditioned restaurant. The third night, and it must have been the hottest in the series, I looked at John and said we should cook as much of dinner as we could on the outside grill. That's what steaks are for, and I'm glad I bought the little grill "wok" thing with holes in it. It handles vegetables real well.

You can only play the air conditioned restaurant card about once a week, so I am happy to say this evening is the coolest one lately. It's only 82 degrees outside and 86 in the kitchen.

I did sneak down to the Majestic to visit with my oldest son late this afternoon. We sat in the air conditioned lounge, had cold drinks and watched the new mail drop across the street from our table. It used to be in the one-way alley way between the city hall and the post office bays. It was a great driver's side approach, but somebody worried that although it had been in the same place for twenty years and nobody could remember any wrecks, that there might be one some day and they should move it. Now it sits on the kerb of 5th Street with a passenger-side approach and cars are coming from both directions to get at it. Not everyone thinks to bring a passenger.

One of these days, the right hard-head in a hurry will make the front page of the newspaper.

Not much to do in a small town on a very hot day.

Dinner is in the oven. Just a chicken and some potatoes, nothing fancy. I can sit way in the back of the house, in the dark den with the window fan. Sipping an iced tea, I can even stay awake.

The teenager, Ross, just returned from town with some guys who said they want to swim in the pond. They stood on the dock in their shorts, all ready to plunge, when someone pointed and said, "Leaches." Those are fire newts, but there's no telling some people.

They ruined the supersoakers on the Fourth of July by pouring kerosene in them to make shift blow torches. The kerosene dissolved the threads and soft plastic fittings rendering them useless. Bad planning.

So now they're in the game room playing pinball, and that may be better than leaving wet towels all over the hardwood floors. I'll leave it alone.

No real complaints, though, about the high temperatures. There is entertainment in watching news stories of people scrambling to find air conditioning units at premium prices (as soon as they're installed the temps will be back in the 70s). Some will flood their basements with portable swimming pool mishaps.

I think most people will find a way to lay low or have fun.

I'll wait for the sun to dip behind Scimitar and take a peddle boat around the pond. Maybe I should get one that looks like this:

Chicken Parmesan My Way

I like to cook. I like to look through cookbooks and study recipes. Certain details, ingredients, appearances get my attention but I can't say I follow any directions step by step. That's why I can make dinner courses but I'm no good at baking. Baking, you see, is more like chemistry. If you don't get every measurement just right, you can fail miserably.

I've tried about twelve different ways to make Chicken Parmesan and haven't had much success. It comes out chewy and tough, or the breading comes off in the pan, or it sticks to the pan. Even following the directions to the letter, it falls short of delicious.

But this works for me:

One pound of ground chicken
Two slices of provolone cheese, cubed with a knife
Three slices of proscuitto ham, cut up fine
About 1/4 teaspoon each of garlic powder, ground black pepper
1 teaspoon dried basil, maybe a little oregano
1/4 cup bread crumbs (I used Progresso Italian)
1 teaspoon dried or fresh parsley

You don't need salt, there's plenty in the proscuitto ham.

Mix this all up in a bowl. It's going to be kinda wet, even with the addition of the bread crumbs.

On a cutting board or other clean surface make a 3" circle of grated or shredded parmesan cheese (I used Kirkland Reggiano). Drop a big spoonful of the meat mixture on top of the parmesan and form a patty. Top the patty with more parmesan. You should get four or more patties out of the mix.

Shuffle it into a medium hot non-stick skillet. No oil needed.

Let the patties brown pretty good before turning them. Once brown on both sides, turn the heat low and let them cook through (nobody likes medium rare chicken).

In the meantime cook whatever pasta you like and whatever sauce you like. I like to use spaghetti or fettucine. When I'm lazy, I use jarred sauce like Contadina Marinara.

Here's the magic: the parmesan cheese on the outside of the patty gets brown and crispy. It won't stick to the non-stick skillet, but it'll hang onto the meat really well. Also, ground chicken with cheese and ham stirred into it will not get dry. Chopped meat, having practically been chewed for you, is always tender.

You could add chopped green pepper, fresh onion and/or garlic, or a little dried red chile, or black olives if that sounds good. There are many ways to vary the recipe.

This is what the plate looked like tonight:



I haven't seen this recipe anywhere... maybe it's one of those rare original ideas. I got the idea looking at cheeseburgers frying in a skillet.
You can use extra lean ground beef, too. The Dakota beef at Costco is especially good. I mix a beaten egg, a couple teaspoons of Worchestershire sauce, garlic, pepper, and grated cheddar cheese into it. No bread crumbs. Then I pat blue cheese crumbles on the outside. Baked red potatoes and corn on the cob would be good with this, I think.
Buon Appetito!

Free Willie

We came home last night to the news that our cat, Willie, had not been seen for three days. Our neighbor, Katy, was appointed to Keeper of the Cats and the Bird while we were vacationing in Denver over a long weekend (she fed same twice a day). She is very apologetic, although it is certainly not her fault.

Not knowing which preditor is involved, I have taken the perimeter collars off of the two miniature pinschers and they only go outside on leash now.

Good thing. This morning, twice, a golden eagle has swooped over the lawn between the house and the pond. I went into the game room to tell Ross, and that's when I saw Dustin, the other cat, on the patio. Ross did the math quickly and got Dustin inside pronto.

With it's seven foot wingspan, a golden eagle can carry away about three times it's own weight. When they're really hungry, they are known to attack deer and goats (although they can't carry them).

Ross sits in a reclining chair with Dustin in his arms as I write this.

He remembers when we got each cat. Dustin first around five years ago at the Skagit Humane Society, and Willie three years ago at South Whidbey Humane Society.

The animals you buy at shelters are microchipped and usually named by the volunteers. It was especially important to these people that Willie keep his name. He'd been received the first time as a six day old kitten that they bottle-fed, then as a one year old given up because of allergies in the family.

"That usually means they got a new kitten," said the young girl who presented him. "This is such a nice cat. I've seen one so well-adjusted."

Well-adjusted? That's a description I hadn't heard before.

"Let's Free Willie then," I said. Money was exchanged and he came home us. The first thing he did was get stuck on the roof. Apparently he had no experience with two-story explorations. I have a photo of him I've posted here. He looks like a gargoyle, doesn't he? Two teenaged boys managed to pull him in through a window, but not without shedding some blood.




Cats are very good rodent control, as well as clean pets. We have never had a mouse enter the house with these two guys on the job. Both of them were declawed, but could still pull a bird out of mid-flight (we have discouraged this practice, but no amount of lecturing seems to be effective).

Some people are going to tell me I sent Willie to his death because I let the cats outside. It's nearly impossible to keep them in, even if it was my intent. They are animals and preditors by nature and design. We will try very hard to keep Dustin inside during the daylight hours eagles navigate in.

Coyotes have not been a problem, I think because our house site is open space without much cover. Tough for coyotes to sneak around in, but great touch and go landing strips for eagles, apparently.

So, I feel a little sad today. Can't feel as sad as I would if I knew that eagle or other preditor took Willie, because I didn't see it happen. There's always hope he'll show up at the patio door any minute.

Willie is free again, I think. Free of his cat suit. Not the kind of freedom he'd want. I hope it was quick.

It'll be a little while before I buy another cat. They serve a purpose, but they are affectionate and friendly companions. Willie deserves a mourning period, and I have to think about whether a box of Decon is a better replacement.
I miss you, Willie.

Portland Road Trip

Our son, Ross, is seventeen years old. His older brothers have been out of the house for over ten years. That makes him more or less an only child. As anyone who's raised teenagers knows, these creatures are a sullen lot who do not like to be seen with parents. Family vacations are mandatory attendance, and even a trip to someplace like Disneyland can be regarded the same way school detention is.

We've always encouraged Ross and his friends to hang around our house. I keep lots of soda and snack food here, and there are six acres including a pond with an island to play on. There are pinball and shuffleboard in the game room and a big screen TV they can play video games on.

Even so, we've confronted drug and alcohol use, scholastic negligence and all the other evils of a permissive society. There seem to be few consequences for aberrant behavior. Maybe because there is so much bad behavior there's not enough consequence to go around. Certainly that's the case with the so-called War Against Drugs. It would be better named The Occassional Skirmishes With Particularly Stupid and Obvious Users/Dealers.

Ross smoked marijuana for the first time with members of a Christian youth group in junior high school.

What's a parent to do? The boys know they are welcome here but that anyone smelling of intoxicants will be asked to leave. There are about eight boys who respect that rule and are "regulars" around here. I was a little surprised who toes the line. One boy's mother allows parties in her house while she is home and even parties with them. But he respects my rules.

The contrast between the smoky house where nobody does anything and the non-smoky house where there is lots of activity could make a guy think, I hope.

A couple of weekends ago, we took four teenaged boys on a car trip to Portland from our home north of Seattle. This had been in the planning since about February, when I told a group of doubters we could could make the trip when school was out.

Really? You'll take us all to Portland?

Sure, I'll borrow you all from your parents. Ross will have instant brothers to travel with.

The destination was Daddies Boardshop. The be-all and end-all of the skateboard and longboard retail experience. Daddies signature t-shirt says "Giving Portland Police Something to Do Since 1994." Our particular group of boys are longboarders. They will proudly inform you that longboarding is about distance and speed while skateboarding is about tricks and stunts in a park setting.

Portland is one of the most liberal cities on the Left Coast. Somebody convinced the city council that a longboard is a means of transportation just like a bicycle or a car, and so boarders should have the same right to travel. But police don't like it when longboarder casually scoots through 25 mile per hour posted areas at 35 mph plus.

The stuff fantasies are built on in teenaged minds.

The best way I know to find out what's going on with teenagers is to take them on a long car trip. They kinda forget you're there after awhile and talk freely. It's very entertaining, the stream of consciousness style of conversation. It goes something like this:

"Cody, I told you not to wear that Got Purple? t-shirt. Mom doesn't like it."

"Sorry, dude. It's the only clean one I had. Is there a washing machine at the hotel?"

"Dunno. You can wear one of mine till we get to Daddies and then you can buy one."

"I think I'll buy one from a brewpub. That way I can give it to my stepdad. I owe him money anyway."

"Did you see that movie, Brewfest? That was funny! Willie Nelson tells this joke at the end: "A dad walks into his son's room and says, 'Son, if you keep masturbating you'll go blind.' The son says, 'I'm over here, Dad.'"

"My mom says eating carrots makes you see better."

"So, Tyler, I suppose you eat carrots when you masturbate."

John and I try not to laugh too loud, so they don't remember that we can hear them.

We stopped at South Center Mall for lunch because there's a food frolic there with something for everyone at cheap prices. They wisely chose Johnny Rockets for burger combos for the good quantity at the $7 limit imposed on them.

Back in the car for the three hours remaining on the road to Portland.

The boys were happy to see that the hotel was in a developing area with lots of vacant lots and clean asphalt. The longboards came out of the Tahoe's boot and away they went to explore while John and I navigated the on-ramps and off-ramps to the Jantzen Beach Safeway for provisions.

We did not see a beach at Jantzen Beach. But the Marriott Residence Inn there is a great place to bring a bunch of kids. Two bedrooms, two baths with three TVs and a kitchen. When the boys got back from the exploration, they were kept busy with a pool, spa, and work-out room. Good thing, because it was too late in the day to go to Daddies.

I think Daddies does three times as much mail order as walk-up business because they are so well-established and savvy with the kids. Some of the "kids" are in their thirties.

We got there the next morning a little early, so we left the boys milling around in front of the entrance while we visited the donut shop on the other side of the parking lot. The Asian owner picked up his phone and called Daddies, "Better open up, you've got customers." We are in a recession, after all.

Ross asked for Dan (Daddie himself) at the front counter. He briefed Dan on the expected purchases and negotiated a cash discount. That's my boy! It looked like things were under control, so John and I left them to go explore the Hollywood and Old Town neighborhoods of Portland.

On the way out the door I noticed a poster advertising the Rose City Rollers. There were a couple of championship bouts set for the next evening. I remembered roller derby from my childhood in the San Francisco Bay Area. The Bay City Rollers in Oakland were very popular in the 1960s. We'd watch the bouts on Sunday afternoon television, mostly because the cartoons were over. It was wild and intense. I thought the boys would like it.

From the Rose City Rollers MySpace page:

"Rose City Rollers (RCR) was founded by a small band of gritty, gutsy, nostalgic gals who decided to dust off their quad skates and hit the pavement in August of 2004. Since then, the league has expanded tremendously and now is home to 130+ skaters, four home teams, a junior derby team for high school girls, and a nationally-ranked all-star team."

We drove through the Hollywood neighborhood and across the Willamette River. A few blocks later we found a brewpub called Tug Boat Brewery. It's a small, darkish, definitely owner-run establishment. Looked like a good place to try a hand-crafted beer. Not much of a beer drinker myself, I encouraged John to ask the barkeep, a pretty young woman of about 26 what she recommended. She and I struck up a conversation about small business and economy. She said she was the owner of the brewery/restaurant and introduced me to a female friend while John chatted with a few male beer drinkers.

"What do you know about the Rose City Rollers?" I asked.

Big smiles.

"We're on the Heartless Heathers team!" said the barkeep, nodding toward her friend. I explained that we were thinking of treating four teenaged boys to the event.

"Barfly" (nickname) told us to be sure they got there early so they could see the drum corps and some other pre-game entertainment. There would be instruction on the history of the game and how it is scored. We were assured the boys would have a great time.

It's a colorful sport, alright. The players have nicknames like "Miss Behavior," "Vominatrix," "Apocalypstick," and "Tara Heartout." Costumes include ripped fishnet stockings, satin fabric, dayglow colored hair and tiaras.

I showed the poster to the boys when we met later. These are tough chicks, but some of them are good looking, I informed them. The kids were very willing to be dropped off at the arena while John and I went out to find a nice dinner.

The boys got back to the hotel before we did. Somewhat of a surprise. They told us the intensity does not stop on the roller rink, but goes all the way up the stands. The crowd is as passionate as the players, and although they cheered for the Heartless Heathers (of course), the fans of the other team, the Break Neck Betties, outshouted them and wore them to a frazzle. They were too pooped to stay for the second bout.

The next morning I asked if anyone wanted to see the Portland Zoo or any of the other attractions in Portland. No, they said, they wanted to go back to Daddies to try out the bungee contraption Dan showed them. Bungee? It's a braided cord about ten feet long with two handles on it. You stand on your skateboard and a couple of your friends arrange it like a slingshot on a light pole or street sign and pull you back. Then you turn loose of it and go from zero to 35 mph in an instant.

I was thinking about the short parking lot and the four lanes of traffic on Sandy Boulevard in front of Daddies Boardshop. I was assured that they'd meet at an elementary school playground so I gave consent. Well, ok, but I'm not gonna watch.

I knew they didn't have $225 remaining in their pockets to buy the damned thing, so I wasn't going to worry about it.

I quietly bought four Daddies logo t-shirts, away from John's sight. He'd think I was spoiling the boys.

After the bungee demonstration, we took them to Mt Tabor Park so they could try out their new boards. It's a really nice place with the walking and biking trail chained off so there are no cars. Good hills, curves and straights. Good pavement. We were a day early for "Bomb the Zoo," at which the City of Portland baracades off about three miles of city street including the road passing through the zoo itself. Just for bicycles and longboarders, one Sunday a month. Big disappointment there, but many vows to return someday.

On the way back home, the boys were happy and sleepy. We dropped the last one off at his house and pulled into the driveway.

I went to unload Ross' backpack and miscellany out of the Tahoe.

"What's this? Who does this red backpack belong to?"

Ross looked down at his shoes, and John quickly went into the house.

"It's the bungee." Ross said quietly, "We bought it together. Dad loaned us the money for it."

I suppose we all spoil kids differently. I thought they would look cool in matching t-shirts while they skate around Skyline. With the addition of the bungee, at least the ER docs will know they're together, and that should make it easier to round up parents to sign consent forms.

Independence Day

It's the night of July second, and I'm settled in with my dogs and the TV news shows. It's been a hot day, so I have the window open with the fan going. The air is nice and cool, but it seems the first bottle rocket fire is burning nearby and the air supply is smoky enough to make my nose a little stuffy. Too late to close the window. I don't hear sirens, so maybe it'll be all clear soon.


The news people are talking about the Fourth of July and the celebrations. There is much discussion on keeping the holiday safe: Only children over 12 should handle fireworks. Wear eye protection. Light only one firework at a time. Obey local fireworks laws. Never try to make your own fireworks. Designate one person only for lighting the fireworks. Adult supervision is a must. Never throw or point a firework at another person. Soak all of the spent fireworks in a bucket of water for at least fifteen minutes before putting them in the trash. Fireworks and alcohol do not mix!

My adult sons are busy with their friends and I probably won't see them over the holiday. They've forgotten about family picnics and the making of ice cream with the hand-cranked bucket freezer at Grandpa's house. Years ago they and their cousins kept the paddles turning in the creamy mix until finish, and we all enjoyed big spoons full with fresh strawberries.

The Old Fashioned Fourth of July at Causland Park includes a parade, games and the Annual Town Photo on Commercial Avenue. The photo is taken from the fully extended ladder on Anacortes' biggest hook and ladder firetruck. The mayor stands in front and citizens crowd behind him filling the street between the sidewalks.

But that's the stuff of childhood. Now they are planning backyard parties of their own or maybe even making the trip to Seattle for the big fireworks shows. My teenage son may hang around home until late evening, bringing a few friends over for cheeseburgers and potato salad. There's a chance they'll invite John along for the detonation of whatever bombs they've been building. After all, he helps pack them. A friend has property alongside the Swinomish fireworks retail area, and that's good camouflage.

I'll insist that's where they'll go and that John and a couple of his friends supervise. No arguing!

They'll promise to observe all of the safety rules. Of course.

Me? I'll put on the meal and then send everyone off the property. I'll watch fireworks displays from all over the country on TV while holding two trembling, panting and wild-eyed miniature pinschers. They really come undone by the pyrotechnics in the neighborhood, and this holiday it's a curse to have that keen hearing. Poor little things.

The cats will come home sometime around noon the next day. I don't know where they go, but it's not possible to corral them when they hear the first firecracker before I do.


Sometimes I think about the picnics and the ice cream freezer with the hand-crank. I have a good print enlargement of the town photo with my dad and me and my brother and all of the grandchildren are visible near the center. Ross, the youngest, was three and Chris, the oldest, was fifteen. It was 1995.

I look at that photo and I smile, but I do not feel sad.

The kids are doing what all kids do. They are grown up or growing up and making their own fun. Nothing wrong with a little independence on Independence Day.

There are no grandchildren for me yet. I believe that when they arrive, I'll be looking around for that old ice cream freezer with the crank on it.

And the local vet will give me Xanax for the dogs, I think.

Dinner at the Brick

It's a tough economy for many people. No doubt about that.

I read in the paper that this resort town I live in has some citizens forced from homes into travel trailers and cars.

"I don't see that," I remarked to a friend, who showed me the article. Janet is a retired woman friend who volunteers a few Sundays a month preparing and serving "Dinner at the Brick" which is advertised through local media and charitable institutions. Anyone can come eat for no charge. The Brick is the Presbyterian church basement at 9th and M Streets. Coincidently, it's across the street from the house my family lived in when I was a teenager. It's sanctuary is made of bricks with a castle front. Dates back a hundred years or so, and is very beautiful inside and out. There are elaborate stained glass windows, wooden beams and an organ with brass pipes that reach twenty feet or so.

Janet said just drive up and down the alleys and you'll see the homeless. I did that, but I thought people always parked their RVs and extra cars behind their houses. Whatever the case, I told Janet I'd like to come and help with the dinner sometime, and a date was set.

In an earlier story, I wrote about my first weeks in 1968 Anacortes at twelve years old, having arrived from California suburbia, and what a culture shock that was. In one "scene" I described a man staggering up the sidewalk with a pistol in his hand. He was on his way to confront a prostitute girlfriend a few doors from ours. He thought she was spending too much social time with clients, apparently.

That man, Bob, was the first person I met when I parked my car at the church. He hadn't disappeared in the forty years or so when I first saw him. He'd been a barfly until his later years, then he'd be seen sitting on the bench in front of the Post Office with his best drinking buddy from the old days. Neither of them had much spark left in the past ten years or so.

This day, Bob was pushing a walker along the walkway and making slow progress toward the basement stairs.

"I'm going the same place you are," I said to him, "Let's see if I can help you get there at the same time."

I saw a sign indicating an elevator lobby at the other end of the building.

"Should we use the elevator?" I suggested. No, he said. He'd always gone in this way.

Very well. We tucked the walker into a corner and I took his arm, with my elbow under his armpit, nursing home style.

He smiled and said it was a pleasure having such a beautiful lady accompany him to dinner.

Well. Thank you.

I think if he'd started down the stairs on his own, dinner would have been interrupted by paramedics.

There is a nice commercial kitchen in the church basement and a large gathering area adjacent. One end is set for meetings with a podium and piano. About twelve big round tables are at the kitchen end. I took Bob to his customary seat and went back for the walker.

Janet introduced me to the volunteers in the kitchen. There would be about five of us serving and cleaning up. One woman had made a big pot of "cowboy stew" and Janet herself had produced homemade bread. Costco salad mix rounded out the meal. As good or better than my family might get at home.

I watched the guests arrive. Some I'd seen around town, some I hadn't seen before. In trying to describe this gathering, I can say if you looked closely you might see a mental imbalance here and there, but it could have been any gathering of family and friends. The volunteers were not condescending, and the dinner guests were well-mannered and sociable (to varying degrees).

All were dressed in clean clothes and I did not smell intoxicants. Some even dressed up a bit, however oddly. Clearly this evening was an event.

One man, a Lummi Indian named Robert, sang songs and recited poetry he'd written. He played a handmade elk skin drum to accompany his voice. I'd seen him walking up and down Commercial Avenue over some years and thought he was one of those crazy guys. He's actually educated and a very good writer. Not nuts, but certainly eccentric. Robert was offering handmade jewelry items based on cedar bark weaves and glass beads. He displayed two baseball caps out of woven cedar bark. Very precise and creative work, no plastic. Janet bought two pairs of earrings for $20 each. She praised his work and said to me in the kitchen, "That should keep him going for a little while."

I waited for the sermon I thought would preceed the meal. There was only a brief prayer of thanks for the food and fellowship.

Dessert was all homemade, too. Apple pie, rhubarb crisp, blueberry coffee cake.

Janet counted the plates as they came back into the kitchen. Second helpings are also counted. When the meal was over, the leftovers are plated and sacked for whoever wants them. Those plates are counted, too.

"We served forty-six meals," a volunteer reported. This somewhat inflated tally is necessary for some agency somewhere, but the costs of this meal are so minimal. I wondered if the real purpose is of the count is to show a strong need to keep the dinners happening.

When the last diner had left the building and we were putting away the clean china plates and glassware I said to Janet, "This is a social evening for these people, like a treat, isn't it?"

She said, "You got it."