Resthome food stories (3 of 4): Maraschino cherries.

At the resthome, we also all got treated to ice cream one day, and we had these plastic containers of toppings left over, one with sprinkles and one with some crumbled up Oreo cookies, and then a container with toffee bits and another one with some broken up M&Ms, and finally one of maraschino cherries that we kept in the fridge so it'd stay cool and not go bad (though do maraschino cherries ever go bad, I wonder?, besides wondering, what exactly are they, anyways?).

Anyhow, after a few days, I asked people if it was okay if I took them all home, and they were happy to see that someone wanted to eat them, and so I ended up taking them home.

I had like 8 or 10 maraschino cherries that first night, and I drank the juice too.

And, I had another 3 or 4 cherries the next morning when I went to go leave for work.

I was telling my one assisted living client with disabilities about it and about how weird I felt, and she was like, "If there's ever a time that someone can do this, it's now."

Oddly enough, I haven't noticed any different in my shit, even with all of the maraschino cherries that I've been eating.

Resthome food stories (2 of 4): Pizza, redux.

One day a few weeks ago my resthome coworkers sent me home with like half a pizza from a pizza box that was in our staff fridge in the office.

I had eaten a shit ton of the standard dinner at the staff meal that night, but then when I got home and unpacked my backpack, I went to go put the pizza in the fridge, and one slice looked so good, I ate it.

And, later I ended up having three more, then I forced myself to stop, so I'd be able to have some pizza for a meal later, maybe to take to the apartment of my one assisted living client with disabilities the next day when I went to go in to work.

But, the next morning I got up and I brewed my coffee and I went to go microwave my lentils like I usually do, and the pizza kept calling to me as I sat down to have my breakfast and read my Rolling Stone.

So, I was like "fuck it," and then I had one piece, and then I had the other one, and I ended up finishing off like all of the pizza, like less than twenty-four hours after I'd brought it home.

I mean, how often do I have pizza in the fridge?

So, if I feel like cold pizza for breakfast, why not go for it? 

It's not like it happens all that often, I can't even remember the last time this happened.

Resthome food stories (1 of 4): Pizza.

At the resthome, there's been a lot of free food lately, to make the staff feel appreciated during the coronavirus crisis.

One day, there was a lot of pizza for everyone, with some pizza boxes in our office and some other pizza boxes in the dining area where all of the culinary workers eat.

I was down there eating dinner, then, and I heard the one (Ghanaian) kitchen manager talking with the one (cool) (Mexican) culinary worker who I joke with.

He said he'd eat pizza if he's hungry, but it's nothing that he likes very much.

She agreed.

They then both went back to eating the standard staff dinner.

Hippie habit.

The other week I was chit-chatting on the phone with my one (hippie) friend from (Michigan), and she was telling me that she has a new meditation practice.

Since some cultures divide up colors differently and don't have a color "blue," she goes down to the Great Lake near her and stares at it and gets absorbed in the colors for like fifteen minutes at a time, as she thinks, "Not blue, not blue, not blue..."

Random memory of my childhood.

My godmother thought it was the funniest thing that one time Olivia Newton-John came up in conversation somehow, and my uncle was like, "She makes me nervous."

Whenever she told that story, she'd just laugh, and imitate the way my uncle said, "She makes me nervous."

. . .

(This is my father's younger brother, and not my mom's brother.)

Random thought about the world.

It's amazing how little we think about that there's just this big section of Canada right by us, where everyone speaks French.

Like, what's up with that?

It's there and it's like so random, but we never think about it.

There's like a ton of people there, and they speak French, and not only that, they speak French, but they're not French.

It's so weird.

Yeah, I know the colonial history, but it doesn't make it any less weird.

Cutting observation of a resthome resident.

The other week at the resthome after I delivered a tray to the wife of a husband-wife couple who moved in recently, the wife asked me to cut up her food for her, since she told me that she had a terrible time of holding the knife and fork the other day when she had to cut up something on her tray.

"It's cheese blintzes tonight," I was like.  "Do you still want help?".

"Oh," she was like.

Then, she was like, "If you're not able to cut a blintz, then you know there's a problem."