Sixty Plates and One End Slice

The First Thursday

I was in that kitchen at five in the morning, the same hour I had walked into Mom’s cafe for sixteen years.

Twenty pounds of ground beef. Two dozen eggs. A whole bag of old-fashioned oats.

Six big onions, grated by hand on a box grater because Mom said a food processor bruised them, which was nonsense, but I did it her way anyway.

I made a separate batch for the residents on mechanical soft. Same recipe, but the beef ground twice and an extra splash of milk, baked in a covered pan so it stayed tender, with brown gravy instead of glaze so there was no crust to fight.

The regular loaves went into the oven at nine. By ten-thirty the smell had gone down both halls.

A nurse came into the kitchen holding a medication cup and said, “What on earth are you making? Half my hall is asking.”

“Thursday,” I said.

At eleven I pulled them out and probed every loaf. One fifty-eight, one sixty, one fifty-seven.

The ends had gone dark and sticky, just like hers, and I set the two best end slices aside on a saucer.

At 11:40 I was mashing potatoes in the big kettle and Dena came and stood next to me with her arms folded. She watched me for a minute without a word.

“Your mother’s at the front table,” she said. “I had them bring her down early. She’s been asking what smells so good since ten o’clock.”

I did not answer. I put the masher down, washed my hands, and checked that my hairnet was on straight.