The Best Kind of People

At my job, I meet people of all sorts from all walks of life. We've seen celebrities, musicians, actors, directors, cast, crew, poets, singers. I always welcome an opportunity to speak with those traveling through our theatre. Occasionally, I am blessed to meet that "rainbow in the clouds," as Maya Angelou put it, and see the true worth of an unknown man.

This past week, I was enticed in conversation with a man who introduced himself as simply "C.W." He is a 57 year old colored man from Virginia, working for retirement and nearing the end of his road. The animation with which he told his story was matched only by the enthusiasm of Gary, a Washington, DC man himself. I am humbled in the presence of a great character such as C.W., and would like to relate what I can of his story so you may know a little about one of the most special people to walk this earth.

C.W. was born in Virginia, and there he stayed. He's been in love with his wife since the day he met her, and his gaze has never strayed. They married, and both attended college despite having a baby girl and little income to speak of. "There were times when we was so broke we couldn't even afford the tears to cry with." I let him know that I understood the feeling, as I am going through the financial struggles of college and adulthood. He said, "Sugar, you just gotta look at the good times and know that they'll never stop no matter how broke you go." C.W. and his wife managed to both graduate, rotating classes so that one of them would always be home to take care of the baby and building up a close group of friends to support each other when times got too hard.

His wife is a lawyer, and he's been through his share of careers. He owns a bus driving company that hauls celebrities for cross-country tours. He's taken care of all the big name celebrities, including personally driving the bus for Barak Obama during the Presidential campaign. C.W. has been through the entire United States, but was barred from driving Maya Angelou to one of her lectures in Canada because he fought a few Canadians and a security guard at the border patrol when he was 17. His partner had to take over for the night.

Having built his company from scratch, he take great care and pride in his work. Gary asked whether C.W. and his partner would be waiting in the bus or going to the hotel during the lecture. "No, sir," replied C.W., "I stay with Miss Angelou from beginning to end." His heart is as big as the bus he drives, and he put forth the greatest love and respect for his aging and ailing client. I only wish I could match it.

"I been working for 37 years or more now," he said. And work is putting it lightly. Five years ago he built his dream house for his wife, who swiftly through him out of his man cave because she didn't like the men smoking their cigars in the house. He's currently fixing the room above the garage so he can still have his personal space in the house without upsetting his wife. He's never stopped working to make her happy, and I don't believe he ever will.

Much like my own mother, C.W. is finished raising his own babies and has been reaping the benefit of being the Grandaddy. His oldest granddaughter is a senior in college, studying to be a specialized nurse. She goes to school full time, works more than 30 hours a week to support herself, and asked C.W.'s help in purchasing a conservative older model car so she could get around. He told me he was so proud of that girl that he went out and bought her a brand new Volkswagen bug. "My son was so upset about me buying that car, but I just told him that girl is workin' hard and she deserve that brand new car when all she asked for was a little help with an old piece o' junk." That granddaughter must be his one pride, because only his wife gave him that same twinkle in his eyes when talking about her.

I was very sad when our conversation was cut short because I was called to take my place for work. I knew there would not be another opportunity to talk with C.W., and I will likely never see him again. He is truly a rainbow in the clouds.

Chicken Noodle Soup

James gave me the cold that he and Jacob had last week. I had hoped to avoid it, but refused to stop kissing him. It's my own fault I suppose. As much as being sick sucks, it does have one redeeming quality: chicken noodle soup.

Now, I've been spoiled my whole life with all these natural ingredients and homemade goodness. But you can get the same thing in the can, right? My roommate had a can of "Healthy Choice" chicken noodle soup, boasting 8 grams of protein, 100 calories, and 460 mg of sodium. I decided to compare the ingredients to what I was making in my crockpot. Take a look at this:

Chicken broth, chicken breast with rib meat, carrots, enriched egg noodles (durum wheat flour, water, whole egg solids, egg white solids, niacin, ferrous sulfate, thiamine mononitrate, riboflavin, folic acid), celery, less than 2% of: modified corn starch, flavor, salt, autolyzed yeast extract, sugar, modified rice starch, rendered chicken fat, potassium chloride, isolated soy protein, maltodextrin, guar gum, xanthan gum, sodium phosphate spice, beta carotene citric acid, disodium inosinate, and guanylate.

If you couldn't tell, that was the list of things contained in a one-serving sized can. In my own soup, listed in order they were thrown in the pot:

Onion, garlic, celery, carrots, broccoli, mushrooms, chicken breast (cooked in butter), potatoes, water, salt, spice, egg noodles( unbleached unbromated flour, eggs, water, salt), peas, and corn.

I could see getting picky and saying that I did, in fact, put the chicken fat in when I cut up the cooked breast and dumped it in and some of my spices (I'm looking at you, sodium chloride) may very well be some of those scientific sounding chemical names. But I still like the look of my ingredients much better. It's just what I need to cure what I have.



I also took the opportunity to bake a new loaf of bread. Fresh baked bread is one of my favorite things in the entire world. When times are good, I'm making some every other week. I still had half a loaf left from a week or two ago, but I figured it would be stale by now and I would pour some broth over it to make stuffing. Imagine my delight when I picked up the aluminum foil package and felt the plush bread give way under my strong grasp. Unfortunately, when I unwrapped the loaf, the top had molded over. I suppose I still get a fresh loaf tonight.

I love bread dough. Most people, especially in my generation and of my age group, have never even seen bread in its raw and uncooked form. When my roommate Angela was in the kitchen while I baked, I implored her to try a pinch of dough. She gave it a disgusted look, turned her nose up, and refused to try. I was very surprised! This is a delight, a delicacy even. Today, my roommate Lisa was interested in learning to make it. I asked if she's ever tried the dough. She said no, so I took a pinch and offered her a pinch. She said it tasted good, but I know she doesn't love it as I have loved it. I grew up eating this stuff! My mom made that dough practically every weekend for the entirety of my childhood. It's like home to me.

I guess that's just what cooking it to me. Home. I am greatly saddened that so many people will never know the happiness I know in the kitchen. A lot of friends say their mothers are great chefs and cook so well, and I get very disappointed when I see these ladies in action, opening cans and dumping bags of frozen veggie mixes. Where did all the magic go?

I solemnly vow to keep the magic of freshness, raw ingredients, wholesome cooking, and love of food alive in my kitchen for now and forever until the end of time. Amen.