Stew on this

It was with a mixture of excitement and trepidation that I parked outside the rundown church a few miles north of my neighborhood. This would be my first volunteering assignment and I really didn't know what to expect but I planned to keep an open mind.

A growling stomach would be horrifyingly inconvenient when serving dinner to people for whom this might be their ONLY hot meal this week, so I made certain to snack before I left home. A few hours earlier, I threw some veggies, some cubed meat, beef broth, red wine, crushed tomatoes and a bunch of spices into my crockpot and set it on low (and tried not to feel guilty about my late dinner of homemade beef stew).

Several of our 'clients' had already arrived when I walked into the third floor auditorium-turned-dining room. Our team leader immediately instructed me to tie my hair back, wash my hands, and grab a clean apron.

I'm ashamed to admit that I expected the room to be filled with stick-thin elderly black men in grubby ripped clothes - - the 'underpriviledged' as my suburban upbringing drew them. To my surprise and dismay, the room filled with a group that reflected most any neighborhood in Chicago. Black, white, hispanic, asian, young, old, men, women (okay, not many women) all in old, but clean clothes.

The faces were different, but they all wore smiles of gratitude. Not a single person who received food that night neglected to say 'thank you' or 'God bless you.' I was humbled when our clients gave us a round of applause just for helping out.

My job, as it turned out, was to serve the entree. Or rather, to fill the largest compartment on the cafeteria trays that we filled and served to our guests. Pasta, salad, applesauce and cake occupied the other tray areas.

The main dish?

Beef stew.