The Weekend Kitchen Supervisor

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Some things are hard to believe.
That I would last four years as a Weekend Kitchen Supervisor
at the Record Street Home for the Aged is hard to believe.

Working there one weekend can cause constipation, back troubles, some mental anguish, and pains in the ass. The residents are all women over the age of eighty-eight–some diabetics, some with food allergies, and the rest are just picky old bitches.

Getting the meal out is like finishing a puzzle. No potatoes on this plate, no prunes on that plate. My assistants are older women too, who have been doing their jobs for decades and don’t like supervision. I’ve already told them that I won’t fight men anymore, but I’ll take on a couple of women. I’ll hold my flattened hands in the air and tell them I know karate.

“Mrs. Brown says her oatmeal is cold,” Loretta yells as she comes through the swinging door.
“Nuke it one minute.”

Rosa says, “Mrs. Snyder says the bacon knocked her dentures loose. She wants to speak to you.”
“Just tell her, ‘Don’t eat the bacon!’ Tell her that her Poly Grip let loose and to just eat the eggs.”

Wow! I made it through breakfast…a long day ahead with two more meals to go.

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