Monday Means Meatloaf

Monday was our day to cook for the homeless. I truly did not have time this week, but I put that problem aside and dragged myself (and my laptop) to the church. While the other volunteers had lunch and later when they took a break, I banged away on a magazine article due the next day.

It was so worth the effort.

Just hanging out with these people lifts my spirits. The joy they bring to their work is so pure and so real you could wash it with the other dishes. The loudest, most frequent sound is laughter.

Mom and I are the group's bookends: I am the youngest and Mom is the oldest. I try to do jobs that involve heavy lifting. So does Mom. She doesn't want anyone to think she can't pull her weight. Believe me: no one would. That woman is indefatigable. You want a five-pound meatloaf mixed? She's your girl. Got a washtub full of mashed potatoes that need stirred? Step aside. She's got it covered.

I love these people and I LOVE watching my mother work and laugh with them. Wearing a purple baseball cap, a green apron and a smile, she sparkles. I've rarely seen her so happy as she is when up to her elbows in a vat of hot, sticky potatoes she's making for total strangers.

Monday means meatloaf, and it is a good thing. Even when you're on deadline.