The Kitchen Meeting

Drip drip drip.

A drop of water landed on the wet clump of cold oatmeal in his bowl.

Drip drip drip.

Sherwin was so used to the drippy old roof and peeling concrete walls that he would’ve felt unsettled if it were any other way.

Drip drip drip.

He took spoonfuls of gray sausage and began stacking them in the large sets of pans. It was 4:30am. Breakfast would be served in a prompt 30 minutes.

Prison inmates don’t get a choice when it comes to breakfast.

Wheeling the large carts stacked with tubs of gray sausage and old clumpy oatmeal to the serving stations, Sherwin didn’t need help given the fact that he was the largest inmate at the Cumberville Correctional Institution. His long, jet black beard and eyes to match likely didn’t help curb the assumptions about him, either.

Setting out large trays of the food along the old woodblock serving bar, he never did picture his life going this way. He never thought he would be nothing but a prison cook. A much revered, overly feared prison cook, at that.. as a child, he loved riding his bicycle. He loved eating his mother’s cooking. He loved home, really. He missed home.

And how did he become the man no inmate dared challenge? He heard the whispers…

“Do NOT test Sherwin. Aye, I heard he hit a man so hard that in just one knock, the man had become stupid on the spot,” one man gossiped.

“Look, Pete, you’re new here. And here, there’s just one rule. You NEVER, and I mean truly, never complain about the food. You eat it. You keep your mouth shut. Understand?” another man had whispered at last week’s breakfast.

5:00am arrived. Lines of inmates in pale gray suits shuffled in, taking their spot in line for a scoop of cold oatmeal and sausage. It was a grim sight, honestly. Sleepy eyes, heads down, shuffle, shuffle, shuffle. Gray prison suits to match the gray, peeling concrete walls to match the gray sausage in gray food bins. 

But today, the slim line of cold sunshine sneaking through the grated window illuminated a new sight. A small man with a twinkle in his eye and a mop of curly brown hair. Sherwin was so distracted by the sight of this new little man, that he forgot to scowl for a moment.

Angrily taking away empty food bins as the line shortened, Sherwin glowered down at the little man as he approached the bin of clumpy porridge.

“Good morning!” said the man.

Sherwin glowered.

“Aye, I say, this has to be the blandest, sorriest pile of breakfast I’ve ever seen,” the little man said.

Men coughed. Spoons dropped. A thump of one man falling from his breakfast bench.

“What did you say?” Sherwin growled.

“Well, good sir, I just mean to say, this porridge is as clumpy as a rock! And the sausage! It’s as cold and stiff as I’ve ever seen! Any ketchup? Any way I can have this re-heated up?” 

“You - little. Shut your mouth if you know what’s good for you!” Sherwin growled as he slammed a large serving spoon against the counter. 

“No matter, no matter, I’ve just got a little..”

The little man slipped out a tiny vial from his pocket and poured a dollop of brown liquid on top of his sausage and porridge. 

“Good day! Thank you for breakfast!” He said as he walked off merrily to find a spot on the bench.

Aghast, Sherwin stood staring, in shock at what had taken place in his own dining hall. It was silent, no sound but the drip of a leaky pipe nearby. Men stared, men gaped. Men stood still.

Sherwin, realizing he was not interested in losing his most fearsome reputation, barked, “Get scooping! Hurry up! You want a whack on the head, you good for nothin’?” 

The morning breakfast routine moved along. Men picked up their spoons, and the day went on.

Hours later, Sherwin was spraying off serving trays and silverware in the large industrial sinks of the kitchen when he felt a clang at his hip against the metal sink’s edge.

“What in the-?” Feeling his pocket, he pulled out a small vial. Sherwin realized it was a similar vial that the little man had at breakfast. 

Inspecting the vial, he noticed the brown liquid within was thick and slow-moving. Realizing that his own second bowl of breakfast was waiting on the table for his chores to be finished, he took the vial over and took a seat.

“Can’t imagine how he got this into my pocket. “ He murmured to himself. “Don’t even know how he snuck it in this place in his own pocket. Supposed to be a high security federal prison, it is.” 

He could not say why he would trust the liquid in this vial. Federal prison is the last place to be trying out strange, unidentified liquids. But against his better judgment, he poured a dollop on his second helping of porridge and sausage.

Taking a bite, a sweet sensation of pure maple bliss filled his mouth. His taste buds were overwhelmed, producing feelings of comfort.. and of joy. Thoughts of home, thoughts of his mother’s homemade cakes filled his memories. A warm feeling flooded his chest. A feeling he had not felt in many years.

“What could this be?” Sherwin murmured, helping himself to more of the strange liquid. “Not honey.. not molasses, not sugar. Better. Better than anything I’ve had.” 

He thought of the little man with the twinkle in his eye. 

Sherwin picked up a pencil and ripped a little piece of paper off his crossword puzzle booklet.

************************************************************

Peter woke up to a rustling noise coming from his cell door. 

Rubbing the overgrown curls from his eyes, he got out of bed. The light creeping underneath his door revealed a small piece of paper on the floor of his cell.

Crouching down, he picked it up and unfolded it.

The black scribbling was barely legible,

“MEET ME. KITCHEN. INSIDE DINING HALL. TOMORROW NIG. 10PM SHARP. DON’T BE LATE.”

Peter folded the paper back up. What on earth was a nig? 

Next morning, Peter went through his daily routine of being a regular prison inmate. He had already made some good friends here. David, Sam, John, and Patrick were all friends he’d made on his chore assignments. Mop floor ten, usually with Sam. Carry firewood to the incinerator, usually with Patrick. Scrub the main floor toilets.. usually alone. 

Peter could not wait to have his good name cleared and go home to help Uncle Ted save his home from the bank man. But he would certainly miss his new friends here. Prison was a little frightening, sure, but it wasn’t all bad. Last week, Warden Miller had agreed to let Peter plant a row of petunias along floor ten after the daily mop. The brown ceramic pots looked delightful, glinting in the sun, filling the corridor with the pink and purple hues of the freshly planted petunias.

Dusk eventually came that night. All inmates were to be in their beds at 9:00pm. Peter waited until well after curfew and knew what he needed to do.

Heaving himself up to the grated window of his cell, he fumbled his foot against the concrete ledge for purchase. He heaved himself up on top of the vent and started to crawl. Lucky he was, to be such a small man.

At 10:02pm, Peter dropped out of the vent, landing on top of the fridge of the dining hall kitchen. He brushed his curls from his eyes and slid down the side of the fridge. He started to look around. Before he could get much of a look, Sherwin was standing in front of him, blocking his view. A great oaf of a man, he was.

“Now, you didn’t tell anybody about this little secret meeting here, did ya?” growled Sherwin.

“No, sir,” said Peter.

“You swear it? I’ll crush your head in if you’re lyin!’” 

“No, sir, you have my word!” 

“Nobody saw you?” Sherwin said.

“No, sir. I’m quick and nimble as a fox, I assure you,” said Peter.

Sherwin pulled out the little vial that he knew Peter had snuck into his pocket the day before.

“Explain this,” Sherwin said.

“A bottle?” Peter said, throwing a kitchen orange up in the air and catching it again.

“Don’t touch things. “ Sherwin snatched the orange out of his hands.

“The brown liquid you somehow smuggled into this place,” he continued, “what is it?”

“Oh! Maple syrup?” Peter replied. “Maple syrup is all it takes to make a bad day good!”

Sherwin squinted. He hadn’t ever heard of maple syrup. He was suspicious, but he would do anything to get his hands on more of it.

“Make me some more,” Sherwin said, still squinting at the small man.

“Well, Sherwin! Manners, manners! Why don’t I teach you how to make your own maple syrup?”

“I don’t have time for that. Nonsense, such nonsense,” muttered Sherwin, waving his hand dismissively.

“And, not only that, but we must make enough for everybody! At breakfast!” Peter pressed on.

Sherwin squinted at him.

“Well?” urged Peter.

“Fine. Well.. no promises. But first, show me. What do we need?”

Peter smiled. 

“Now it is always better to tree tap, of course. But given our circumstances…” he said thoughtfully.

“Well?” urged Sherwin.

“We need maple flavored extract! Buckets of it! Brown sugar, too, bags and bags of it.”

Sherwin stared at Peter. 

“Done,” he growled.

*****************************************************

Next day Peter arrived back at the kitchens with Sherwin after curfew. Small plastic bottles of maple flavored extract covered the industrial countertops of the kitchen. Bags upon bags of brown sugar were stacked on top of the fridge, stacked on chairs, scattered in piles on the floor. They even filled the sink. Peter welcomed the sweet smell in the air, rather than the smell of stale grease.

“Well, let’s get to it,” said Peter, putting on a striped prison staff apron.

Bowls clanged, spoons danced, drops of water and mix hit the tiled floor. The night echoed with the sounds of baking. Sherwin thought it really was a jolly thing. The smell of sugar, of maple. The sounds of mixing, and the feeling of somebody to cook with. It brought back his memories of home. The ones he had buried.

“Simmer! Not boil, simmer!” Peter scolded Sherwin, lightly tapping him with a wooden spoon. Sherwin growled in response, slowly lowering the heat of the gas stove.

“Let it simmer until it is thickened, yes that’s it,” said Peter as he took the spoon from Sherwin and began to stir the pot of syrup.

By morning, Sherwin and Peter had produced dozens of pots of homemade maple syrup. Not only this, Sherwin felt he now had a great new skill. The skill of maple syrup.

Peter stood at the serving bar beside Sherwin at 5:00am. Kitchen hats on. Gray prison suits stained with maple syrup. Spoons in hand. Pride on their faces. The fact that they had been up the whole night was forgotten. The wood block serving bar was lined with trays upon trays of breakfast food. But this time, it wasn’t gray, cold food.

Sherwin stood, looking down at the platters of breakfast. It was a different sight than the usual clumpy, cold oatmeal and cold gray sausage. Rather, warm pancakes steamed in the trays. Little bowls of maple syrup lining the bar edges. Sherwin’s eyes twinkled. Teapots of hot, black tea sat waiting for the men.

The breakfast line came in with the 5:00am breakfast horn.

Sleepy inmates in gray suits shuffled in. Heads down, feet slow, silent and morose. Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle.

“Good mornin,’” Sherwin said cheerfully to the inmates as they lined up at the serving bar for their scoop of breakfast.

“Pancakes and maple syrup! Dish up, dish up, lots for you all,” said Peter.

John, inmate number 512 stared at Sherwin, aghast.

“No….sausage? Sir?” he squeaked.

“Sausage! Funny lad. Nay! Today it’s pancakes! Hot pancakes and maple syrup! Dish up, dish up, like Peter said.. Don’t let it get cold now!” he smiled as he loaded John’s plate with warm cakes.

John rubbed his eyes, staring down at his hot plate of pancakes with maple syrup drizzled on top. He rubbed his eyes again and snuck another look at the smiling Sherwin. He managed to shuffle down the line, frequently turning his head to sneak another shocked look at Sherwin.

Soon the dining hall was echoing with laughter, with chatter, with hollering and with fellowship. The sun shone down through this slim, grated prison windows. But this time, it was warm. The gray, peeling concrete walls suddenly seemed more of a cheerful sight. A warm one.

Sherwin turned to face Peter, dish towel in hand.

“Well, Peter, time for dishes. and it's my turn to have a taste of more maple syrup with my second breakfast helping! It’s my reward, it is,” he said as he began loading empty breakfast trays onto the trolley.

“Say, Peter..” he continued.

“Yes?” Peter asked, scraping spare bits of loose pancake into the trash bin. 

“I’ll say, we’ll get you out of here, Peter. You have my word. You will be a free man, we’ll get you out. You deserve better than all this.” he gestured at the post-breakfast mess.

“Ah, thank you, Sherwin.” Peter smiled. His eye twinkled.

“It’s not all bad, though, Sherwin. Look at this lot! Great men, they are,” he said, waving at the chattering inmates seated at their breakfast benches together.

Sherwin observed the change in the dining hall that morning. He smiled. There was something odd about this Peter. Something good..almost magical? Whimsical? Something..

The dining hall continued to echo with mirth. Two inmates had begun a friendly arm wrestle, while others hooted. Teapots were being passed around, the sound of liquid pouring into cups, the clanging of spoons, the belches of full men echoed off the walls, along with the clinking of tea mugs.

Yes, the regular chores and routines of the prison would continue. Yes, hard work would be done that day. But that morning, a day of hard work didn’t seem so bad. And the hearts of the men were lightened from their burdens.

The sun smiled down on Cumberville Correctional Institution, and it was never the same again…

In a good way.