From left to right: Sheryl Hansen, Margaret Young, Olive Wagstaff, and Clara Monson.
Some days I get a wild hair up my wahoo here at the Valley Villas Senior Apartment Building in Provo. Although there are two pleasant lobbies in the building, hardly anyone ever comes out to sit on the couches and chat. The place is usually as dead as a morgue (maybe not such a good comparison, considering most everyone in my building has moved here to just mark time until the Grim Reaper comes knocking.)
So when I get restless and bored (the Comcast guy has STILL not come out to hook up my cable so I can finally watch the Twins) I start to cook. My wife and I raised eight children, and I cannot recall a time when there wasn't something boiling on the stove or baking in the oven to feed that ravenous hoard -- and most of the time I was the head chef, Amy being hors de combat with another child on the way. And although at the time I felt rather put upon and enslaved, nowadays I find that popping a Tater Tots casserole in the oven is very soothing. Trouble is, who the heck is gonna eat it all? I'm good for a bite or two, but then toss the rest in a baggie and throw it in the freezer -- where I take it out four months later to throw away to make room for some newer leftovers. If my mother could see me doing such a thing, she being among the most provident homemakers in the Twin Cities half a century ago, she would rise from her grave and come after me with a spatula.
To remedy this I have started putting my casseroles and pasta salads, not to mention fruit cobblers and skillet corn bread, out in the lobby by my front door. With a sign inviting one and all to help themselves. At first there was no response, outside of a few puzzled glances in my direction as I sat on a lobby couch nodding my head encouragingly. But the word has spread and today, when I put out chicken and dumplings, a Waldorf salad, and a peach cobbler, people came from all over the building for a bite. And outside of the building, too. The photo above shows Sheryl Hansen and Clara Perry, on the left and right respectively, who are building residents, enjoying my chow. And in the middle is Margaret Young and her grand daughter Olive, sampling the peach cobbler. Margaret is a retired teacher from Brigham Young University, where she taught Creative Writing for 15 years. I saw her at the pool this morning at the Provo Rec Center and invited her over for chicken and dumplings, and lo and behold she came with her little grand daughter in tow. About twelve people, not counting the wee bairns, showed up today. There was plenty for everybody.
Now what I was really hoping for by setting out this feast on the cuff was a gathering of chatty oldsters who might regale me with an interesting tale or two. Or, conversely, who might be willing to listen to my windy stories about life under the Big Top. Sadly, until today, most of the conversations circled endlessly around doctors, operations, and the price of Lisinopril and Lasix.
But happily today things perked up when Margaret and her young charge walked in the door. Margret retired from BYU to found a charitable organization, along with her husband, called Congo Rising -- which finds grant money to provide better education and sanitation in the Democratic Republic of Congo. They work in league with the Congolese Catholic Church. She just got back from the DR Congo, after helping to write and produce the first in-country feature film there, called "Heart of Africa." And she had plenty of stories to tell about her time there. Stories that I'm going to get her to repeat to me at some later date and write up for my blog here.
But until then, I'll have to think of something toothsome to offer the denizens of Valley Villas tomorrow (Oh, when will that Comcast guy get here?) Clara gave me a block of pasteurized cheese spread and several cans of creamed corn -- so maybe I can whip up a corn casserole, using the Saltines I've got stashed away. Plus I've got a couple packages of orange Jello and cans of fruit cocktail gathering dust on my pantry shelves.
Guess I better hand letter another sign for tomorrow . . .
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