The Clarkl Soup Kitchens

by Mary Carmen

  We are going to have to build onto the main building. I am in charge of pulling together the requirements for the addition, due in New Washington in a month. Everybody is crowded in the kitchen, and the Clarklians wait patiently in line until a table is cleared and reset. I hope we can expand with a facility equal in size to the one we have. I believe it will be easier to run two smaller dining rooms than one huge one, but the government surely will have opinions about that.

  The Fundamentalists are not having these problems. Their numbers of meals served have actually decreased over the last year.

  The news in our kitchen is that the Fundamentalists have a prayer meeting right after dinner, and they shuffle the Clarklians from the dining room into their big tent for the services. The Clarklians usually refuse to attend, but they don’t like the pressure. On the other hand, if they come here for dinner, they can walk or ride back home without having to insult the hosts by turning up their noses at the prayer meeting. This is my simple explanation of why our dining room is more popular.

  We have had a wonderful year with root vegetables, mainly turnips and parsnips. Some kohlrabi, too, although this is not a root. The new chef likes celery root, and he juliennes that into match-sized pieces and mixes the pieces with an egg-free mayonnaise. Each time he makes the celery root dish, we have less left on the buffet.

  Our recipe book had a major overhaul after the new chef had been here about three months. Now, it is less of a curiosity for the people back home and more of a real cookbook. Mrs. Wade wrote to tell me she placed an advertisement in the New York Times and over 2,000 people ordered the cookbook! My picture, along with those of most of my colleagues, is in that book. I am standing just behind a potato tray along the buffet line, serving spoon in hand.

  December 25, 2141

  I’ve been here over four years! When you are working fourteen hours a day, the time flies.

  Our fine manager left in August, amid many good wishes and a few tears. She was over seventy, and she had a great grandchild on the way in Utah. We will miss her.

  As for me, I was promoted to assistant manager, a job title that did not exist before. I will manage the dining room, with its tables, chairs, and waiting line. The new job came with another $100 per month, less than a five-percent raise. It also came with no time to sit down, a fact I did not realize until I had graciously accepted the assignment.

  I am spending more time, now, with the Clarklians. They like a friendly greeting, but they don’t mind making my life difficult when the lines are long or the favorite dishes on the buffet line are in short supply.

  The Wolpters are the worst of the complainers. They have places to go and activities to attend to, if you can believe them, and they don’t appreciate being held up by the Drones in the waiting line. Everybody knows the Drones have nothing to do but eat four or five times a day, but the Wolpters are always in a hurry.

  The Wolpters are nearly as ugly as the Monarchs. Although they do not have those strange flesh-like horns, they have very wide lips and tall ears.

  The Wolpters are responsible, our new manager has told me, for most of the Drones on this planet. A Wolpter and a Carrier always produce a Drone, and a Wolpter and a Slinker produce a Drone half the time. Since the Wolpters are prolific breeders, the Drones they complain about are very likely their own products.

  And the number of Drones has grown since the Americans started to run the dining rooms in the 2070s. If anybody is starving to death on this planet, it is not the breeders of Drones. This would include Slinkers, Carriers, Seekers, and Wolpters. In fact, since Drones and Batwigs are sterile, only the Monarchs, of the non-sterile sexes, do not produce Drones.

  I would like to see the demographics for the seven sexes. I know when a certain sex reproduces with its own kind, the offspring is the same sex as the parents. Each of these creatures is androgynous, and each non-sterile creature is able to sire or bear a child. I have heard that Monarchs tend to keep to themselves for childbearing, but a true Monarch can also be a product of the Wolpter and the Monarch. I often wonder if they can distinguish between them.

  Some of the farmers are certain the Clarklians gather the youngsters in great orphanages. Do they keep the sexes separate there?

  So many interesting ideas to think about while my feet hurt.

  The chef has not yet been caught by his suitor, but I understand he goes out to the farms on his days off to court a lady farmhand. Since the suitor’s day off is not the same as the chef’s, perhaps she doesn’t know about his other interest.

  There should be a rule here whereby a love affair costs $10,000. I believe we could insulate the cabins after collecting these fines for eighteen months.

  The twins continue with their work at Ohio State, and Susan and Molly look happier with each new picture.

  December 25, 2142

  Another holiday has come and gone, and my sentence on this cold planet is half over.

  Good news from the real estate people, though. They have raised the rent again, and the tenants have agreed to a two-year lease. All my bills are current, and my liabilities, including the mortgage, are under $100,000! Except for that note Harry signed for Patsy.

  No news from Patsy, of course. I wish she would just tell me the status. It’s even more important to me now that I am within a year or two of turning the corner.

  The Seekers came back to the farms, loaded down with robots. These curious creatures now do all the weeding, even in the rows where the plants are about the same size as the weeds. The robots are able to sense the biological makeup of whatever they have their clamps on and pull up only the weeds. Our farmers are now using the robots right before planting and during the growing seasons.

  Last year’s outbreak of love affairs has abated somewhat. We are down to the chef and his various interests, two homosexual couples, and one stalker. The stalker is part of my dining room crew, and our new manager is thinking of sending him home. I think he is so old at 62 that he is harmless, but the object of his attentions is not amused.

  We had so many string beans this year that we canned enough for at least two more years. It amazes me that some crops are very good one year and very poor another. I believe the weather is uniformly cold year after year, but the farmers assure me this is not the case.

  Water remains constant, though. Most of it comes directly from the polar regions of the planet, gathered in large lakes as the seasons change and piped to the several cities along the planet’s equator. We have never had any lack of water, either in the kitchens or on the farms. Even my little hut has running water, both hot and cold.

  Another visit this year from our clients, the Batwigs. They never talk to us but, instead, stand in the door and greet their countrymen as they enter. They seem to be taking some kind of a survey.

  Of course, we take a survey every day. How many meals were served, what was eaten, what was left over. We have over sixty years of these records, and our reports show that we are increasing our numbers of meals each year.

  The new facility was finally approved, but it will be significantly different from the place I imagined. We will have four dining rooms branching off one enormous kitchen. Each dining room will serve a different meal, all day long. Certainly this will be easier for us, but will the crowds spread themselves around? Or have we trained them to expect our breakfast/lunch/dinner routine?

  Another change will be that we will need to have a facility for around-the-clock snacks. On the architectural drawings this looks like an old Automat, with little doors that open. No coins will be required, though. Anybody who wants something will be able to drive up in its little one-seater and take small portions of cake or pie or that local tea. Of course, we will need to keep this facility filled at all hours.

  December 25, 2143

  A very merry Christmas this year. We received extra hut heaters from the American government!

  This is the year I owe the kitty $10,000. Yes, an affair! It only lasted four months, but it was th
e first passion I have felt in many years, certainly since the twins were born.

  The only thing we had in common was the Tuesday day off, but that was enough. After the courting and the bedding, it cooled quickly, but it was long enough for me to realize I’m not dead. He’s off to another woman, and I’m left with only the memories and a reduced bill at the commissary.

  The new building is becoming more of a reality. The first poles were driven into the ground in August, and the floor is nearly complete now. I sometimes walk to the building site on my lunch break. Most of the workers are robots, of course, but the Batwigs are in charge.

  Nothing ever is done quickly here, it seems. Building projects move slowly, with many, many layers of agreements required. If somebody wants a change higher up, the process for agreements starts afresh. Right now the architectural plans are finalized but the interiors are the subject of discussions at all levels. Whatever do the Monarchs care about it? They rarely enter the present building, and certainly never to take a meal here.

  The Fundamentalists are not getting replacements, I understand. People are going home, but others are not coming.

  Our own numbers continue to grow. We have about thirty percent more people on the farms than we had when I arrived and about five percent more in the kitchen. The numbers of meals served continues to climb, with fewer Clarklians dying of famine and, consequently, more Clarklians being born. Are all the entities who are born becoming our clients? Are only the poor gaining in numbers?

  Poor Clarklians are very similar to poor Earthlings. They have patched clothes, bad teeth, and rough skin. However, they do not avoid bathing; public showers are available at nearly every street corner, with soap and warm water. All sexes shower together.

  Mrs. Wade wrote that eleven more people from our town have signed the agreements to come to Clarkl for work. She told me my picture in the cookbook was one of the selling points. They will be on a spacecraft that arrives in September.

  A small interruption to my financial plans this year: the twins are moving to Denver to attend Stanford. I will have to help with the tuition. I still believe I will be just above breakeven when I return to Ohio.

  I’m still managing the dining room. We have no extra tables and no extra china, but the buffet line continues to grow. Every day I see new Clarklians, ones I have never seen in our dining room before. I’m not sure where they come from, but the manager says they are surely escapees from the Fundamentalists.

  December 25, 2144

  Another busy year, with lots of changes.

  Patsy got so far behind that the loan company put a lien on my house. I quickly authorized the real estate manager to write a check for the full amount from my account, and now I am back to thinking about my options.

  If I stay here an extra year, I will have about $50,000 in my account and all my liabilities paid off. That means I can live on the $30,000 per year from Harry’s annuity in a free-and-clear house. Any extraordinary expenses would need to come out of the $50,000. I will have no health insurance until I am 75, approximately fifteen years after I return to Ohio.

  If I go home after ten years, I will have about $10,000 in my account and all my liabilities paid off. That’s very tight if something goes wrong.

  I’m still paying about $10,000 every year for the twins in graduate school. That expense ought to be done with in another year, but they will surely need extra money to help them settle into their jobs.

  I’ll never be able to get anything from Patsy. I’ll probably leave that receivable to be divided among the children when I die. Let them try to squeeze her.

  This year brought a little extra money, though. We earned a cash bonus for exceeding our quota of meals served for ten straight quarters, and everybody in the dining room and kitchen crews received $4,000. The farmers received $5,000 each.

  The cabbage crop was enormous this year, and we really didn’t know what to do with it. The Clarklians are not too fond of cabbage except in cole-slaw, which is very labor intensive. We have machines that chop the cabbage, but they never do a good job with it so it requires handwork before it is mixed. We fixed those cabbage spring rolls, too, but the Clarklians will eat them only to get the pineapple sauce we serve with them. We should just put out the sauce and let them spoon it over rice or potatoes.

  The Fundamentalists appear to be nearly out of business. Our manager says they have not met their quota of meals for over three years. Their meeting room was dismantled several months ago, but we never learned why. Our farm is still providing all their produce.

  My former admirer has become something of a celebrity here. He now has three lady friends, two on Tuesdays and one on Saturday evening. The women all are aware of this situation, and they apparently are willing to put up with his shenanigans.

  The ratio of men to women is certainly one reason why he is popular. We have about six women to every four men, and most of the women are over fifty. The men, recruited for farming, tend to be younger.

  The Seekers have given us ten robots for use in the dining room. They are very helpful with moving all the tables and chairs, cleaning the floor, cleaning each table and chair, and moving the tables and chairs back into place. I have set them up to work right after we take out the last dish after dinner. By the time we come back in the morning, the dining room is far cleaner than it ever had been when we cleaned it after a long day.

  December 25, 2145

  I signed on for another year. The twins took the last of my spare cash, after I paid off Patsy’s loan, and I decided I would rather have an extra $40,000 to fall back on than a year in warm Ohio.

  The Fundamentalists have essentially abandoned their posts. They have a crew of about seventy people left, according to my manager. They had nearly three hundred when I arrived in 2137. All their foods come from either the spacecrafts from Earth or our farms. The seventy people are running the kitchen and the dining room.

  The new facility is coming along nicely. The automat section is ready, and we have staffed it, in addition to our dining room work. Two people are there for each of the three shifts, and one person is always on duty to drive foods from the kitchen to the new facility, around the clock. Its popularity has grown, and now about ten percent of our food goes into those little compartments. The biggest users are the Drones, of course. They are large and like to eat a number of times each day.

  The robots in the dining room are still working well. The Seekers have been watching the dishwashing crew to learn how to create robots to load and unload the dishwasher, and the prototypes are working very well. They are programmed to work with only certain dishes, and they are able to safely set all others aside. Right now the robots are handling about eighty-five percent of the dishes used on the serving line.

  The huts were reroofed again this year, and this new roofing certainly keeps out the cold. It is some mixture of copper and platinum, materials that are in abundance here.

  The only really good thing about this climate is that human skin ages more slowly. I have no sun spots and certainly no skin cancer. People who have been here for eleven years look almost no older than when they arrived.

  About a dozen Monarchs came to the dining room one day this year, for the second time since I came to Clarkl. They toured the kitchen and the new facility, shown around by a few Batwigs. It was like a regal procession, with each Clarklian knowing its place in the line. We stood behind the buffet area, smiling. They never looked toward us. They remain the most hideous of creatures. I am very glad they are not our frequent guests.

  A better apple crop this year, to the delight of the Clarklians. I don’t know why some years are better for apples, but we were able to dry many pounds of apple chips for use in the future. During that harvest, all days off were canceled, and lunch hours were cut to fifteen minutes. How nice the bags of dried fruit looked when we got them packed into the storeroom! And the kitchen smelled wonderful for several weeks.

  We had some good luck with walnuts, too. The Cl
arklians love them mixed with pumpkin or in waffles.

  As of right now, I am scheduled to leave in less than three years. This has been an interesting adventure, but I need to get back to my children and my Molly.

  December 25, 2146

  Less than two years to go!

  This year will be remembered as the year I paid off my mortgage. I had asked the real estate people to make one or two extra payments each year, and in September the final payment was made. Now, I can relax. Even if I am sent home early, as most of the Fundamentalists have been, I have my home free and clear.

  The new facility is closer to completion, and we are getting very anxious to occupy it. The kitchen is now very crowded, with the extra automat foods and two new chefs, and my dining room lines grow longer each month. Those Clarklians who had been eating with the Fundamentalists are coming here.

  The automat is now attended by robots. Our staff takes food to the building and puts portions onto disposable plates or napkins. Then, the robots put the portions into the compartments. We used to have a system whereby we would put pie in one section and main dishes in another, but that is too complex for these robots right now. Except for tea, which has its own set of compartments and doors, any food can go into any empty compartment. This lack of order has not decreased the use of the automat in any way. It is still very popular, and the robots work continually to refill it. Our drivers who take the food from the kitchen work nonstop, too.

  The Drones remain our best customers. They are very friendly, but they are the first to complain if service is not up to their expectations. If pancakes are served without pineapple sauce, we hear the squeals when they point to the serving dish where that sauce usually is kept. If a dish that usually has pecans as a garnish is served without the pecans, it becomes the uproar of the day. It reminds me of my troubles when the twins were young, multiplied by the hundreds of complainers.