Slice: Lunch ladies can’t quit

This year, her 86th on the planet, is the year Estelle Potter retires.

She swears it’s the year she’ll stop toiling in a basement kitchen at Omaha’s St. Paul United Methodist Church. It’s the year she and her best friend almost since birth — Florence Fleetwood — will stop making daily meals for the 70 children in the church day care.

They’ll hand off their whisks and spatulas, put away the large cookie sheets and close those creaking kitchen drawers for the last time.

Florence hears Estelle say all this. She pauses for a minute and laughs. The 84-year-old thinks Estelle is full of more hot air than the kitchen’s creaky, hissing dishwasher.

Flossie — as Estelle calls her — has heard this before. In fact, the two have retired before — about five years ago, from their jobs as day care teachers at St. Paul. Then supervisors reeled them out of retirement and into the kitchen.

Every year, though, Estelle says they’re going to retire. She was serious when she said it last year. But the church offered both ladies a raise, and here they are showing up early and leaving late. Here they are boiling carrots, whisking mashed potatoes and baking blueberry muffins.

Despite their squabbles over favorite dishrags and serving spoons, the two have been fast friends since before they can remember. Their parents were friends before they were born. They grew up together in Wakefield, Neb., and moved to Omaha within a decade of each other. Estelle lost her husband in 1987. Florence’s died in 1989. The two live four floors apart at the Masonic Manor. And they share a kitchen at St. Paul’s every weekday.

The lunch ladies arrive at the church around 8:40 each morning, though they write 9 a.m. on their official timecards. Estelle drives the two of them every day.

The morning starts with math. To meet state guidelines, each child needs a set number of ounces of vegetables, bread and protein. Estelle and Florence take pencils to small sheets of paper to figure out the proper amounts.

On this day, they’re making turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, carrots and rolls for 70 kids. The plan is to serve just-learning-to-eat toddlers at 10:45 a.m. and 3- to 5-year-olds at 11:30 a.m., then collect plates, quickly wash them and serve the school-aged kids. The older kids eat lunch only in the summer, when school’s out. So this time of year means more work for the lunch ladies.

It all makes Estelle sigh.

“It really is a rush.”

The work may be hard, but Estelle handles it well. The slight and fit woman looks more like 66 than 86, moving quickly and purposefully throughout the kitchen. With turkey slices heating in the oven, Estelle gets busy slicing carrots. Running water rushes from the faucet as she pushes the orange veggies between her thumb and a small paring knife. She’s never cut herself, but she’s quick to show off numerous burns on her arms from the kitchen’s large ovens.

At the same time, Florence gets to work on the mashed potatoes. Backed by the hum of a large refrigerator, she boils water and butter before adding milk and bagged potato flakes. She mixes them into creamy whiteness. She simmers a pot of chicken gravy on a nearby burner.

Florence moves a bit slower than Estelle but with just as much purpose. She hears every little noise, and keeps her brown-and-gray-haired head swirling around the kitchen, looking for some way to cheerfully chide Estelle.

She enjoys needling Estelle — mainly because Estelle has called her Flossie forever. Florence hates that name. She’s about to get her shot at a little payback.

After covering 10 pounds of sliced carrots with water and placing the pot on the stove, Estelle looks at the week’s menu. It calls for blueberry muffins for the next day’s breakfast. She mixes the batter in a large bowl.

As she stirs, she keeps watch over the carrots, darting between the two chores. She grabs a scoop of brown sugar to add to the carrots. But — oops — she pours it into the muffin mix instead.

“Oh, no!” She buries her head in her hands.

Florence slaps Estelle on the shoulder and laughs.

Estelle adds another scoop of brown sugar to the carrots before washing the muffin mix down the drain. She starts over, disgusted.

Why would the women do this every day when they could be home taking catnaps, folding laundry and waiting for “Jeopardy!” or “Judge Judy” to come on?

Florence purses her lips and shakes her head.

“Because we’re dumb.”

She’s been cooking for as long as she can remember. She worked in the Omaha Public Power District cafeteria for 16 years.

“When I die, God better not send me back as a cook.” She gives a stern look behind her glasses. “If he does, He’s in trouble. He’s in big trouble.”

These ladies can talk like that to the big man because they’ve worked long hours at the church. Heck, Florence doesn’t even belong to St. Paul’s, but she regularly volunteers to fold reminder cards with Estelle.

The church is like a home for Estelle. Her daughter is assistant director of the day care. Her granddaughter teaches there. Her great-granddaughter is in the toddler class. All of her kids were baptized there.

She will have spent 13 straight days at the church as of this week, working in the kitchen, volunteering for a Saturday banquet and faithfully sitting in her signature spot for Sunday services. Sometimes, though, she gets worn out.

“Boy, this has been a busy morning.” Her shoulders are slumped. “I’m going to sit for five minutes.”

But she doesn’t. She tinkers with utensils, cleans pans. Around 10:45 a.m., the toddler teachers come to collect food for their kids.

As the teachers leave, Estelle doesn’t hear the timer ring, signaling that the blueberry muffins are ready. Florence reminds her.

“Oh, oh.” Estelle runs to check on them. The oven door swings open. She smiles. “They’re perfect.”

As they chill, the ladies survey their kitchen. It’s 10:55 a.m. and everything looks good.

In a pantry off the kitchen, Florence plops into a padded chair with curving arm rests. Estelle perches on a step stool. They talk about grandkids, church workers and “Wheel of Fortune.” Estelle complains about the preschoolers not being in from recess on time. The kids still have to wash up. Their tardiness could derail the schedule, keeping the ladies late washing dishes.

After about 15 minutes, the little ones come pounding into the building from the playground. Estelle scoops carrots and potatoes into bowls. Florence moans as she moves turkey slices from the oven. The heavy pans plague her back. They load the food onto a cart, complete with a jug of milk, dishes and silverware.

A tired Estelle sighs and rolls the cart down a hallway, plates and silverware jangling. As she turns the corner into the classroom, the kids begin yelping.

Grandma Estelle! Grandma Estelle!

She smiles and waves. “Hi, guys!”

One little boy runs up to her and declares himself now a big boy. A group of kids come to see what’s for lunch. Two girls request hugs. Estelle wraps them in her arms.

As Estelle leaves, the kids yell after her.

Thank you, Grandma Estelle! Bye, Grandma Estelle!

Estelle doesn’t look so tired anymore. She looks back at the room and smiles again.

“That’s why it’s hard to quit.”

Maybe she’ll retire next year.

Contact the writer:

444-1220, dane.stickney@owh.com