Dinner has been delivered by surly, PPE clad staff. Having to do more than sit around and collect a taxpayer funded check isn't sitting well with them, it appears. Seriously, all kidding aside, Corrections Officers (COs) at this custody level are vastly overpaid for the "work" they do. Closed custody however, is a different story. Trust me, I’ve had experience with both.
The evening meal consists of two, ice-cold pieces of French toast, a packet of peanut butter, two of maple syrup, two pats of margarine, a cup of chunked potatoes, two hardboiled eggs, one half pint of low fat milk, one juice packet (just add 8 ounces of water and the resolve to slug its vitamin enriched slurry down), one packet of salt, one packet of pepper (neither of which are more than the proverbial pinch), and one napkin capable of soaking up none of the aforementioned syrup should you spill it on yourself as I am wont to do.
With the day room relegated as a plague zone, we must resort to ancient, tribal ways of preparing food.
With no microwave available, we are required to resurrect the way of the "Hot Pot".
For those of you unfamiliar with this archaic device, its one you fill with water and plug into an electrical outlet. Its shaped like a pot and the water it holds gets hot. Any questions? Too bad (or "Good", as the case may be, I've no idea how you answered and though I occasionally believe I'm psychic, its not *that* kind of ESP). This isn't that kind of post anyway.
We (really, all of this is done by Dwayne, he likes this sort of hodge-podgery, I swear) place the potatoes, eggs, two pats of margarine, twenty-four pieces of quartered pepperoni, and some guacamole salsa into a spare (and resealable!) tortilla bag. Then, we plop the bag into the Hot Pot. The latter two ingredients come from our own, limited pantry. Never expect DOC to provide such things.
The syrup (which has been bathing in the Hot Pot during this preparation) is now nice and scalding. When poured over the French toast we (and I still mean 'Dwayne') have previously cut up into bite sized morsels, the thermal transfer is enough to make the eggy bread rather enjoyable. We (and I do mean 'we' this time) scarf that down and await a similar transferal of heat to our bag o' breakfast.
The wait isn't too long. Besides, Dwayne has little patience for food. Especially food that acts like its on holiday at the spa.
Soon enough, he's portioned it out and surprisingly, its quite tasty. And warm. A further, brilliant idea is made apparent when he adds a little chocolate syrup from our pantry to the low fat milk.
Sigh...
Can chocolate milk count as comfort food?
No, don't try to answer that, I couldn't hear you anyway. It's a rhetorical question. Of *course* it counts.
Anywho. The staff are dispatching ensmocked and masked prisoners from B-Side to deliver and pick up laundry. They're providing plastic bags that smell like they've been sanitized with fermented weasel urine, but I suppose its all headed to the laundry, right?
I jest a great deal. It gives me some comfort to lighten the mood of not just myself, but of as many others as I can. What's not funny is how many people in the U.S. are suffering from food insecurity while I sit here bemoaning cold French toast. If you can, reach out to any of the charitable organizations that are struggling to make sure others have enough to eat and help them. Please. All I have to offer are my words. I hope they'll help.
Well, that's it for now. I'm sure there will be more hilarity to report tomorrow. From me to you and all of yours, goodnight. ^_^