Lunch Ladies

Another author's note: My use of Lunch Lady is meant with the utmost reverence and respect. This is a collective term I am using to describe those in an institutional setting who serve others hot nourishing meals . In my case, this is primarily the schools  I have attended and hospitals where I have been employed. I remember some of their names; I wish I could remember them all.

My earliest memory of primary school involves food. No surprise to those who know me best. In the hallowed red brick halls of Schneider Elementary School in Columbia, S.C., there was magic. Our lunches were prepared in house and from scratch every day. We feasted routinely on crispy homemade fried chicken and spaghetti with crusty garlicky bread. Everything that was prepared for us was delicious. On occasion, our lunch ladies baked homemade cinnamon rolls and dinner rolls. The comforting smell of warm yeasty goodness permeated those chalk dusted  classrooms.  More than cooks, the women in the kitchen were extensions of our Moms. They called us by name, and comforted us with great vats of chili and gooey grilled cheese sandwiches and soothed our small, easily bruised egos. Those were the first of many lunch ladies I would grow to love and cherish.

One Thanksgiving many years ago when I was a brand new nurse, a patient of mine refused repeatedly our offer of Thanksgiving lunch prepared lovingly and with great care by the extraordinary group of women in the hospital kitchen. The patient was an elderly woman who had not received a single visitor in her rather lengthy tenure with us. We tried time and again to get her to eat the turkey and dressing and cranberry sauce. She refused over and over stating her family was coming and bringing her all of her favourite dishes. Eleven am became noon. Soon it was one o'clock, then two...then three. Nobody came.

Around four o'clock that afternoon, a co-worker and I went down to the cafeteria to enjoy some of the feast ourselves. We told the story of our sweet patient to Miss Bessie, one of the lunch ladies. She instructed us to find out what those favourite dishes were, and then she would prepare them for our patient. Dinner time came and went with our patient still holding out hope for a family visit. Once our regular trays were picked up and returned to the kitchen, those dear lunch ladies,  who had stayed long past their scheduled shifts, brought the most wonderful tray of  food to our patient. She had the gelatin salad, the squash casserole, the apple and sausage dressing, and the towering coconut cake  she had so looked forward  to served on real plates with a cloth napkin and a flower. Once we all wiped our tears away, we spent time together swapping stories and enjoying each others company. It remains my favourite Thanksgiving.

I love lima beans. I love them best when they have cooked down into a thick, soupy,  mushy masterpiece of ham hock and lima bean perfection. I looked forward to Thursdays at University Hospital because lima beans were always on the menu. When I worked the night shift, I would go to the cafeteria at the beginning of my shift to procure my lima bean supper, as the cafeteria was long closed by the time I had a meal break. The ladies got to know me over time and knew how much I loved their lima beans. After a spell they would bring me lima beans when they closed the kitchen for the night so that mine were cooked as long as possible before consumption. I would thank them profusely, but they always would tell me it meant so much to them that I loved their food so much. I miss those women. They used their talents in the kitchen to treat those who were frightened or anxious or grieving, treating their caregivers as well. What great medicine was their food.

A few years ago, John and I had the opportunity to travel to Oswiecim, Poland. You would know it best by the name the Nazis gave it: Auschwitz. We toured the seemingly endless camps made of row upon row of wooden barracks that once housed thousands of innocent souls. At times the exhibits were completely overwhelming. There simply are not words to describe the horror and disgust and anguish one feels when confronted with a place where so many atrocities occurred. You realise after a while that your eyes are weeping, and your heart is mourning for so many. We continued on to Auschwitz II or Birkenau. It was more stark and desolate than Auschwitz I with a large tower announcing its presence. Huge searchlights and barbed wire fences gave us a  chilling welcome. We walked to the end of the train tracks where a large monument stands at the site were the  gas chambers once were. We realised we were literally standing on ground formed of the ashes of over a million and a half  people. Exhausted and overcome with grief we made our way back to the museum entrance.

It is difficult to describe what happened next. We were ushered into a cafeteria, where we were encouraged to eat. Eating had not been on my agenda at all, as it would require food to somehow get past the large lump in my throat and stay down my queasy stomach. There in this place of despair and grief, were the women of Oswiecim making comfort food for the visitors of Auschwitz and Birkenau. Thick stews and crusty bread with creamy butter were being offered. The women called everyone dear and sweet and love. I had not eaten since early morning and all of a sudden I needed to sit and break bread with my fellow witnesses to this place. Little by little the warming sustenance eased our grief and made it possible to go on. These women were a living metaphor for the community surrounding these camps of horror. During the war they did what they could to comfort, to smuggle food and letters, to bring medicine and in some cases to hide those who would have certainly perished.

Lunch Ladies are part of the intricate fabric that makes up a life. They don't teach students to read or write. They don't perform surgery or prescribe medicine. They don't start  revolutions or take down  dictators. They give comfort. They made it possible for me to learn with a full stomach and a knowing that I was loved. They made our patients heal, and in doing so healed so much more than surgical wounds. They taught me that even in the midst of unspeakable horror, love and hope can flourish.