tomato sauce

I was kicked out of a homeless shelter (The JesusDuplexes) over a bottle of cheap pinot grigio. Actually, the eviction notice listed in order: an unclean house (not mentioned at any of the dozen and a half daily inspections), socializing with other guests, and the bottle of wine. And I suspect the socialization was the "real" problem, seeing as how there was a meeting the day before prohibiting interaction, and the families guilty of hanging out on the sidewalk chatting about our kids after bedtime were all given less than three day's notice to leave. So I called the magistrate and wrote out little cards & handed 'em out to everybody, explaining the legal process involved in eviction and how to get a judge to order the JesusDuplex folks to follow the LEGAL, thirty day or more procedure. But I'm getting away from myself.

It's stupid now that I risked my tenancy over something I suspected would be unacceptable. It's stupid now that I thought the wine was important- I told Marc as much, and he said "They're ass hats."

"No, think about it, if you're dealing with homeless people, you can't just kick one person out for being an alcoholic and let someone else pretend to be Julia Child. Oh wait. You could have the rule, 'If any of your behavior or belongings are a problem we will ask you to leave,' that would cover it...anyway, they're used to crackwhores or something."

As I poured homemade blackberry wine into a pasta sauce made from tomoatoes, garlic and zuchinni, all gifts from friends or family, I talked about the women's shelter I stayed at before the JesusDuplexes. It was a communal facility, like a house, with seperate bedrooms and shared everything else. I told Marc I moved into the JesusDuplex to get away from the kitchen at the women's shelter.

We were assigned nights to cook meals. Food preparation consisted of things like "Remove plastic from Salisbury Steak, place in 350 degree oven. Mix 6 servings of mashed potatoes according to the directions on the box" of powdered whatthefuck "potatoes," and the Steak wasn't, it was some kinda soy & hog's feet concoction. Hog's feet would have been more respectable.

So you've got all these women tweaking about how much their lives suck, and you have Craft Nights for Therapy, but you have 'em cook shit? Why not some Food Therapy, y'all? Get 'em involved in some SKILLZ, hey.

I told Marc about a lady I didn't like very much because she was often irritated with her toddler, and said I should have been more patient with her because my child is an madly irritating todler now too. I told him I didn't like her until she cooked fried chicken one night - honest to god, "I found these chicken legs and some flour & eggs," give the lady a cast iron skillet, Fried Chicken. I didn't talk with her as much as I would have liked, but I think I might know some of why real food made with your hands was so important in that house.

When I cook, I gain a measure of control over my life and my future. When I take a collection of ingredients that used to intimidate me and I can make something that is sensually pleasing as well as functionally fulfilling, I've put thought and effort into a gift that is, with the prevalence of fast food, no longer neccesary. And when it's made with items gifted, foraged and recycled, there's a story on the plate worth admiring.

I'm grateful that I can choose, as a responsible adult, to drink a glass of wine while I'm stirring the tomatoes, pour a little into the sauce, and settle into a pleased glow because that graveyard up the hill fertilized the blackberries what fed the yeasts to make the wine and yea, this is the house that Sarah built, praise the dirt your god almighty, maker of food and wine, and I've had a little much to drink.