Five Loaves and Good Luck

Meatloaf and Potatoes for 200

Ingredients
25 lbs cheap, bulk ground beef
1 dzn eggs
4 loaves bread
Mustard
Ketchup
Worstishire Sauce

The night before serving, break all of your meat into roughly equal five pound bunches. Feel superior because you're preparing the night before, being all smart and stuff. Grab one of your bunches of meat (no puns, ple-... well, okay make any pun you want) and crack three eggs over it. In a mixing bowl, should have mentioned. Rip up about six slices of bread- smaller than that, idiot- into your meat mix. Dump some of each of your wet ingredients (you should be able to figure them out, go ahead, try!) on top. Here comes the fun, take your hands and just start mashing the meat and eggs and bread and shit together. It feels cool doesn't it? Like gross but viscerally satisfying? Yeah, you know what I mean. Anyways, do it for the others as well, and then cover and refrigerate them and get a good night's sleep.

Later in bed think to yourself "Shit I forgot to do anything for the potatoes. Oh well it can't be hard, they're instant mix." Go to sleep anyway, confident in your abilities.

Wake up and go over to the soup kitchen after awkwardly loading a ton of meat into your car. Drive back for the potatoes because your dad was right you  just don't think sometimes. Now you're running a little late, but you're still fine, right?

At the soup kitchen, you can't help but notice the ovens are taking a helluva long time heating up. You've got like three hours.

Grab a baking sheet and pick up the nine others that fall when you pull it down. Look around casually whilst you hope with all of your heart that no one saw. You're supposed to be the cook dammit. Your Little League coach apparently knew what he was talking about when he demanded you stay home for the Championship; you just can't perform come crunch time kid. Banish the voices, get back to work.

You shaped your meat into a few loaves (I can hear you immature readers giggling) and stuck them on the pan, which then went in the oven. You even manage to turn it on to an approximation of the right temperature!! Now to tackle the potatoes. Reading the box as you walk to the pantry, curse yourself for not getting help. The older, more experienced volunteers said they'd come help, but you had it under control, right genius?

Realize that the recipe calls for real butter. Margarine is better for the homeless anyway. Realize the recipe calls for chives. Well fuck them, this ain't a five star restaurant, they didn't need chives. Realize you're a dick.

Back in your borrowed kitchen (dammit, you need to clean up sometime soon, things are approaching dangerous) start whipping all the potato ingredients together like a mad man. Your arm is sore isn't it? Yeah, take it easy, its fine! You've still got.... holy crap only an hour left! Time to build some muscle.

Pull the meatloaf out of the oven, put the taters in. The meatloaf is kinda.... mushed I guess, but the meat thermometer says that temperature is right, full steam ahead!

One of the other volunteers has arrived, and even though she's about a bajillion years old, her coming is like the sound of a redeeming angel. She mentions you should have planned a salad, or at least some fruit for the kids. Restrain yourself from killing her and adding her to the meatloaf and instead set her to putting up folding chairs.

Wow she's setting up a lot of friggn' chairs. There can't be that many people coming, can there? Why so many homeless?! Wasn't Obama supposed to fix the economy?! Stop worrying about him, start worryjng about yourself. Your meatloaf is lookin' awful small (that's just too obvious, go make your jokes). Slice it thin, then.

More people are coming in and you feel oddly territorial. This is your place, dagnabbit. But they're complimenting your potatoes, so they can't be all bax, and its nice to have help, you can stand still for a second and ponder this clusterfuck. You hear the old lady say that it was a shame there were no chives. Tell yourself repeatedly that killing an elderly female volunteer for a soup kitchen would get you sent to hell by pretty much any religion.

Your meatloaf is being served and yiu feel proud.

Twenty minutes later you frantically microwave hotdogs because they ran outbof meatloaf and you had to run to 7-11 and buy them.

Four hours later you vow to never do charity again.

Season with vodka and tears to taste.