Mike, the uber-chef, and his 'special sauce'

Let me tell you about the charming and kind chef, Mike, at my mother's new care center.  He shows me that so much depends on my attitude.  I've written about him before, on February 28. He has continued to impress me.

I met Rick as we sat on the couch at the care center, waiting to sign admission papers.  A burly man was sitting there looking at some menus, and he stood up (as a gentleman) when we, as ladies, entered the room.  We started chatting.  He is a displaced Boston Italian, charming. He seems to have a million stories, and has had a rich life. He is a cook, and has owned restaurants with dreams of caring for his family doing what he loves. Yet, after some twists and turns in his life, he is here, cooking for some very senior citizens.

Now, how would you handle that?  How would I handle it?  Would I see myself as a failure, bitterly disappointed to have to cook for those who may be quick to complain?  These elderly ladies and men have palates that are Midwestern, leaning toward meatloaf and mashed potatoes, rather than robust and Italian as Mike loves to cook. Many residents have reached an age where little tastes good, and medical issues may prohibit them from having as much salt and sugar as they might like.

So, given all that, would I value this place in my life, if I now had to cook for these folk?  Would I consider myself as being in a successful place in my career?  Would you?

If you have any doubt, please talk to Mike.

Mike views this stage in his life as being golden.  He works long hours - from before breakfast to after the evening meal - but just for three and a half days a week. The rest of the time, he gets to enjoy time with his family and spend time with his children. He lives in a city where he is able to live at a slower pace than Boston, and I assume, to live in a better home that he would have been able to afford there. You'd think he'd been handed the keys to the city. He glows when he talks about his life and family.

Even more, he treasures his privilege of cooking for the older folks. He told us that he is very aware that he will probably cook the very last meal that some of the residents will ever eat, and he counts that an honor.  As we sat there, meeting him for the first time, he repeatedly insisted that my mother tell him exactly how she liked things cooked, and he means it!  She even said she doesn't like potatoes in her soup, and so he makes every effort not to give her potatoes in her soup - and he doesn't even point out to her that it's a little cuckoo that she loves potato soup but dislikes potatoes in her soup!

After dinner, he comes out, takes off his cap in deference to the ladies, and talks to his guests.  But he doesn't stand next to them, nor even lean down toward them.  He gets down on one knee to be sure he is on their level, to hear and look at them in the eye. He laughs with them, gently kids them a little, and gets ribbed in return. He watches to see what food gets returned to learn how to improve his offerings.

And his food is delicious, by the way.  Shrimp scampi and barbeque ribs, chicken-fried steak, custom-made salads, and egg or tuna salad sandwiches that are so stuffed that they overflow the side of the bread. And, there's even the occasional spaghetti or ziti pasta! Really delicious.

Honestly, he might still cook about the same, whether he viewed his role as important or not. But I can't help but believe that there is an added sweetness, a 'special sauce', that comes from someone who has chosen to be content. Someone who sees the goodness in his situation, and look beyond the disappointments or even bitterness that we all experience in our lives. Mike smiles his wry lopsided Boston grin, tells you about his kids and this week's menu and about his great life, and you know you are in excellent hands.

A Disney day

Today feels like a true Disney day.  The sun is shining, the birds are singing, all's right with the world - with a nod to Robert Browning as well.

Yesterday, the day was dismal - rainy, cold, lightning and thunder.  I had acute bronchitis, with a spot on my lung that looked like possible pneumonia.  I had chills, fever.  My doctor warned me to stay away from my mother and go home to bed. 

But it was move day.  Nuh uh, doc.  Gotta go.  

Equipped with hand sanitizer and, yes, a mask, I went to work.  Got her physically moved with a few essentials (sheets, blanket, her nightgown, cookies, walker and wheelchair), before lunch.  Hospice moved in the hospice bed and her oxygen. 

Then went home to wait for the second shift.  

My son Kelly and his brother-in-law Chad came at 6:15 that evening.  Put a few things in the truck from my home (bouncing some things back to her that she'd already passed to me).  Then, off to the old place to pack up and move her things.  We got to the new place about 8:45 to find her in bed.  After we unloaded, I whirled around, got things out of boxes and set them out - just out, anywhere.  

She looked so peaceful and content, happy to have a safe space. A home.  And now, her move complete, I can stay home until I'm better and not contagious. 

Today, the sun is shining, the birds are singing, all's right with the world.