"Does ANYONE know what cilantro looks like?" Charles asks exasperatingly to the group of 12 of us who are prepping for tonight's free dinner at the hostel. All chopping stops and blank faced foreigners gaze at our kitchen leader. I look around waiting for someone to step forward and when none does I say, "Sure. It is a flat leaf herb like parsley but different."
"Great," he says with obvious relief. "Can you go down to Chinatown and buy as much as you can with this money? There's a produce stand on the corner of Stockton and Broadway, not too far away from here." He hands me a five dollar bill. I grab my wallet and head out the door in search of tonight's main ingredient. It's mighty hard to make any kind of Mexican food without cilantro. I approach my task with serious determination, quickly finding the produce stand and notice that the fragrant herb is dirt cheap at twenty-nine cents a bunch. I'm tempted to follow the directions and buy 15 bunches but know that we don't need that much. I pick out five good looking ones instead. On the walk back I realize that just like that I am falling into old habits by pushing myself...I mean hardly five minutes had passed since I left the kitchen and it was only 5:15. Dinner was at 7 PM and there were plenty of kids helping out in the kitchen. Why not slow it down?
I pass the Beat Museum and decide to visit my old junkie friends. All the greats are represented with equal respect...William Borroughs, Allen Ginsberg, Gregory Corso, Jack Kerouac, and Gary Snyder representing the core. Their books are all still in publication and selling pretty good from the looks of the freshly painted museum. Not only can you buy their books, CD's and DVD's but they also offer real Hippy wear...patch-worked jerseys and authentic woolen black berets. This is better, I think to myself. Learn to dilly-dally. That's the goal.
That's what all the kids in the kitchen did when I returned victorious holding the bag of produce. Charles keeps the multi-cultured kitchen in operation giving direction in small pieces so none of us really know what is the menu and what the game plan is, but no one seems to mind. Franco from Spain enters the kitchen holding a couple of 12 packs of Pabst Blue Ribbon (PBR) and hands them out to the working travelers. I decline the offer.
I am a good twenty years older than everyone in the kitchen and feel pretty awkward like a senior citizen crashing a junior prom. The kids have gathered in little groups working. There are the French kids chopping red and yellow peppers, the Swiss ones working on dicing tomatoes, the Spanish guy frying tortillas, and a group of British guys refusing uninterested in assisting us or chopping vegetables. They have bought turkey cutlets and are making boiled potatoes with mayonnaise for their supper. A pretty blond British girl who is helping half avocados and scoop out their tasty green flesh asks to taste the fresh Cilantro. I hand her part of the bunch and she says, "Oh. Why didn't he say he needed Coriander?" I try to explain to her that in the States, coriander is only the seed from the plant and we call the leaves Cilantro. It is obvious that she thinks that is idiotic.
My intention to volunteer cooking dinner was to maybe meet some people and I was hungry. When I hear there is a free dinner (my favorite price) I wanted to make sure I didn't get sick from the food. Not to be too critical, but I've run kitchens in my day and the community kitchen here at the Green Tortoise Hostel looks clean enough, but I know kitchens. I know how dirty they can be and when a bunch of people are contributing. Eric Cartman from South Park calls them "Dirty Hippies" for a reason. Plus I thought this might be good practice for me to get used to working with group assignments. It's nearly 8 months since I've worked and I'd like to return to some kind of work sometime soon. And you know how I like to experiment on myself. I thought I should check in on my anxiety levels. They do not seem to be getting any lower.
I chop tirelessly making a huge bowl of guacamole and dishing up sides of black olives, diced tomatoes, pickled jalapeños, shredded cheese, chopped onions red and white. Charles gives direction with hand gestures to make sure the Germans know how to open the dozen of giant cans he's produced from the storeroom. Garbanzo beans, black beans, white beans, kidney beans and fire roasted tomato salsa are all on the menu tonight. It is starting to smell good.
I take the Swedish girl's lead and take several breaks during my two hour volunteering to make dinner. During one of my breaks Charles comes over to me and asks my name. I tell him and he says, "God, I'm glad you were here today. Thanks for all your help!" He works for the Green Tortoise Hostel and his job is a three day a week gig coordinating the "free" dinner on Monday, Wednesday and Friday. I can see it is a job that takes much patience and determination. It's not easy to work with a multi-lingual staff most of whom have never really cooked or made Mexican food.
He puts my name on a list which is read during the opening of the meal in appreciation to all of those who helped and we get to go first to eat dinner. Overall, the food is good. I mean, it is a safe bet to stick with the freshly chopped vegetables and I am amazed at how the great hall is full with at least seventy-five starving students and backpackers.
There is a strong college atmosphere here and I search the crowd for any faces that look older than thirty. In the crowd, a pretty woman from Taiwan spots my desperate gaze and she asks if she and her daughter can join my table which is empty except for myself. "Absolutely!" I say smiling and welcoming the company. She is a lovely woman named Raven who is looking to relocate herself and daughter back to the San Francisco Bay area. We have a lovely chat and I am renewed with hope that there are older people who stay at this hostel.
I am a bit nervous about boarding the bus tomorrow. What if all the other participants are just twenty-something and I am the old lady in the group? This will be a good test for me to see if I can be true to myself and not return to old behaviors of taking care of situations. It is my nature to be the den mother and the lasts thing I want to do is feel responsible for a bunch of kids headed into the wilderness.
Dear Sweet Baby Jesus,
I call on you today because of the nice lady I met on the train. She reminded me at how quickly she can manifest action in her life praying to you and I'm on a time schedule so it seems like a good shot. So baby Jesus, please let the people who I will be sleeping with for the next two weeks be kind, friendly, funny and self-reliant. May I keep my anxiety levels to a minimal. And while I did remember to pack the full bottle of Xanax, may I not have to use it too much. I really would like to keep my body pure, but I'm not afraid to open the bottle and pop one either.
Okay mighty Jesus...keep up the good work and bless and protect us all and all that jazz. I'll be looking for you in my potato chip bags on the road. Amen. Ashey. Namaste.
So much love,
All the way from over here in Hippytown USA
Linda
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