Holy Apostles Soup Kitchen

Archive for November, 2015|Monthly archive page


In Uncategorized on November 27, 2015 at 5:10 pm

black friday



Hey Fortitude…wake up…I want to talk to you…do you remember old lady  Astor the one you always say that could eat a good meal?  Well she died…


So you wake me up to tell me that! Look humans die after awhile, they are not like us. We live until Donald Trump or some other rich developer has nothing better to do with his money but play with his toy bulldozer and decides to level us.


Be nice. She was a great old lady. She did a lot of great things for people around New York…come on….


Name one.


She gives a lot to charities and she helps with the various causes with her money. I can’t name one specific one off the top of my head. Hey look at that idiot trying to skate board on our steps… Where are the guards? Each time they go up the steps and skate down it hurts my ears.


Stop being a baby they are having fun…you remember fun?


…FUN…You call this fun? Fun is back when the trolleys ran on 42nd street. Fun is the old buses with straw seats when the straw would catch ladies nylons and you’d hear her curse. Not some pimple nose kid with a skate board. I am going to ask Ragweed to trip his skateboard and let this kid fall on his butt.


You are in a bad mood today… I am sorry I woke you.


That’s okay… I wasn’t asleep anyway I was just counting the Bloomingdales shopping bags that float by. Yesterday I counted a total of 1762. The day before it was H&M.


H&M…that is a new store on 5th Avenue.  I counted 2935.


…That much?


The store is very cheap… but in an expensive neighborhood.


What’s going on behind us?


What do you mean?


That music and people going down 42nd St. with ice skates.


…Oh that… we have a park behind us called Bryant Park… There is an ice skating rink during the winter months and during the summer there is a lawn and people eat during the day and at night there are movies.


Like Lion King?


Look I’m going back to take my nap.


You do that and I’ll have someone tie a ribbon or some crap around your neck.

-George Cousins


My experience as a Volunteer at the Holy Apostles Soup Kitchen on Thanksgiving Day

In holidays, Keeping hope alive, Volunteer Stories on November 20, 2015 at 5:59 pm


I met some beautiful people in the soup kitchen, this man told me thank you for your kindness. Tell me what more can I ask for — a beautiful Thanksgiving Day at the soup kitchen. Then, I met some other volunteers and they told me they want to see me again next year.

This is my first Christmas without my mom. But I realize now there are many beautiful people out there. I didn’t see my friend George on Thanksgiving Day, but he told me a few days before, I will be ok.

-Charles Borges


In Uncategorized on November 13, 2015 at 5:30 pm


soup kitchen - Copy

Fred – my name – I have been attending the HASK since 1996 – It has been most rewarding health wise –spiritual-wise with the assistance of the morning prayer – creative writing project – and the in-service education – I admire and appreciate the friendly and helpful assistance of all the volunteers –

The respect of all is paramount – in society today – It’s my joy and thank-you – to be welcomed at HASK –

The food has been enjoyable and appreciate –

The writing project has given me inspiration and hope to enlighten my spirit and to enjoy the atmosphere of my fellow writers – (poets).

Thank you so much for sharing.

Fred D. Street

Delores’s Bowl

In Uncategorized on November 6, 2015 at 3:03 pm


Dolores’s feet didn’t reach the floor even when she sat at the very edge of the chair.  But she could reach the rung above the floor and yet it was of little comfort since she hoped to be taller.  Waited to be taller.  The table was old Formica in a speckled white and silver. A shiny olive green oilcloth—old stains in spots—covered the cool table, warming it.  Dolores waited patiently for a plate to be placed before her.  Her stomach grumbled and its sound—should anyone hear—was an embarrassment for her; a shame. If there was not enough food and her stomach growled, she knew her mother would feel guilty that there was not enough and Dolores, at those times, felt her heart breaking at the look of her mother’s face—a look which really was hidden behind a numb mask. A mask of equanimity. A mask which deceived.

The chipped white plate came.  A thick plate like those used in a diner.  A sturdy, heavy plate meant to hold a substantial meal—a meal of meat loaf and mashed potatoes and peas; a hunk of a white roll and a smear of butter.  There should be the sound of clanging silverware of eaters enjoying themselves, gorging themselves on the bounty; some talking with their mouth full, anxious to eat and converse all at once, refusing to pause in the eating as if the gusto was also desperation.  As if the eater had once been hungry.

Dolores’ plate came chipped and was made, no doubt, in China with lead; with earnest hands in a sweat shop and in this way Dolores and the worker were bound across the globe in the lockstep of pain.

Dolores plate came with a low scoop of beans and half a slice of white bread, the crust cut off only because there had been a spot of mold on it.  It all tasted moldy to her still, and she stomached it on account of her hunger and on account of her mother’s countenance which Dolores hoped could maintain the picturesque pale skin with narrow lips pulled into a smile whenever Dolores looked at her. But her lips were drawn straight and slightly downward when she relaxed, and no one was looking, and the truth of things tumbled forth inadvertently.

Dolores ate with relish, her eyes glued to the plate, counting the beans as each one disappeared in her mouth.  She felt to slow herself down. And so she would stop and sit up and wipe the napkin across her lips after every ten beans.

They were oval reddish kidney beans without sauce.  But they had salt and pepper and there was a large glass of water.  She had come to learn early to fill her belly with water and it would keep hunger at bay.  She peed a lot and worried such peeing would bring on the hunger, so she drank more.

The last bean was bean number 21.  It would be a lucky number, she imagined, if there was a chance to check on such a matter; like at a carnival wheel, a roulette table, playing the numbers—all of which she had seen on TV.

Each of them—Dolores and her sisters Jenny and Meg and brother Jack—brought their dishes to the sink without scraping them. There was no need to scrape. Sometimes there would be a dessert—a part of a candy bar, an apple—and sometimes not.

In a way, Dolores hoped there would not be because of the alternative . So on this, an alternative day: a day without dessert, her mother placed an empty bowl before each of them and then walked around the table and placed a small flower in each bowl.

The florist, Mrs. Edith, next door, always threw out the wilted flowers of the day at 7pm and her mother faithfully rescued them.

Dolores studied her flower, a white and rose colored peony whose edges had begun to brown and wilt.  Still, she thought it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

Her mother said she did this because of a Haiku poet Basho who said “ She knew the wisdom in this when she watched the faces of her children reflect the beauty of the flowers.  When one child put the flower in her hair and Jack in his shirt pocket. Meg carried it like a wedding bouquet.

But Dolores kept it where it was—in the bowl as her mother had wanted and as Basho had instructed. Dolores kept it in the bowl so she could forever see its beauty and so that the bowl would never be empty again.

-Annie Quintano