“One hundred forty-one degrees and rising!” I yelled.
“Not high enough!” Mark replies over the roar of the giant droid-like dishwasher. “The water needs to be at least one hundred and forty-five degrees to sanitize.”
“More dirty bowls and cups coming at ya!” Molly calls out from behind my shoulder.
“Load ‘em over here.” I reply, my voice almost drowned out by the whooshing of Big Bertha.
A table parent peeks inside the noisy kitchen. “Can we have more bread, please?”
“Comin’ up.” Raul balances a tray of fresh baked in one hand as he rushes to the hungry table.
“Better hurry up and dry,” Molly says. I got a train load of plates and silverware to be scrubbed.”
“Bring ‘em on,” Mark says. “We love dirty dishes!”
For every dirty dish there is a child who did not go hungry.
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