Why Do Food Pantries Suck? They Get The Basics Wrong

 

...Now, this would have worked a treat, 

if only we'd had some soup to go with it...

Here's why food pantries suck, in a nutshell, why I dread going to them, and will move Heaven and Earth to avoid them. It's not that they don't mean well, or that the operators plan on doing the worst possible job. Most of the ones I've met are service-oriented, and conscientious, since these aren't paid positions. Nobody has to spend their Tuesday afternoons or Saturdays morning passing out food boxes or bags to those who need them. 

So that's not the problem. No, lately, I'm finding that food pantries suck for a simpler reason: they get the basics wrong. That observation hit me as Squawker and I were settling in for a lunch of soup and sandwiches, and I asked for the cracker box, on top of the fridge. As it happens, it's a box of Nabisco Premium Mini Crackers, which sell for anywhere for $3-5, or so my online research suggests.

Here's how amazon.com sums this particular offering: "These mini saltines delight with a crispy texture and light, versatile flavor. Snack on these soda crackers straight from the box. The bite-sized pieces also make these mini crackers the perfect addition to your soups and chowders. Sealed packaging keeps these sea salt crackers fresh."

"Come to think of it," I tell Squawker, "when was the last time we even saw a box of regular crackers? Usually, it's a strip of them, if you're lucky. And even then, not so much."

I'm assuming that the budget has some bearing on the choice, because lately, the returns have gotten thinner and thinner, the boxes just a little bit emptier. Still, if I recall correctly, the Premium Mini box came without any cans of soup, defeating the whole point of the exercise, anyhow. As I've noted before, the whole effect is that of a blindfolded person throwing darts at a map. What else explains this random assortment of ingredients, if you're actually counting on them to make a meal?

The flipside of the coin are the items that you do see, with monotonous ticktock regularity, in no particular order: bags of apples, or bags of potatoes. Jars of peanut butter. Massive containers of apple or grape juice, brimming with sugar and flavoring, and little else of nutritional value. Off-brand cans of carrots, corn, or green beans (never the store brand ones, of course). Pancake syrup containers, with no pancake mixes in sight. Watermelon halves, in summertime, nearing the death spiral of their expiration date. (We stopped accepting them, after one literally imploded on our kitchen counter, spraying the surface with a rancid, pink mush that turned my nostrils inside out, as I cleaned up the mess.)

Do you see a theme here, by any chance? I could almost knock out a suitable chorus, in fact, if I wanted: "Sugar and carbs, sugar and carbs, so help me God, it's all sugar and carbs..." It's enough to make you wonder. Do the suppliers really think that's all people without money like to eat? Sugar and carbs? I think not. 

Certainly not so for Squawker, who's allergic to fish and potatoes, and lately, has gone on a gluten free diet. What does someone in that situation do? I'm wondering how food pantry operators will react, especially as the face of America gets increasingly diabetic, and obese, or racked with food allergies. I strongly suspect they won't welcome this endless hit parade of sugar and carbs.

You also see your fair share of weird one-offs, like the 12-pack of cinnamon-flavored Coca-Cola. I promptly handed it back to the volunteer, saying, "There are lots of things that the world is waiting for, but I'm sorry, this isn't among them." Again, it's the detail that's off here. How many people have you seen snapping open cans of cinnamon-flavored Coke at weddings, or family reunions?

I also suspect a fair bit of confirmation bias going on here. I remember when Squawker and I were planning to go some art-related activity or other, and feeling fairly enthusiastic, only to have that enthusiasm evaporate when we discovered that it was happening in somebody's basement. Trouble is, Squawker can't do stairs, which elicited an angst-filled query: "Why do people schedule activities that way? Don't they ever think about accessibility, as something that's needed?"

"But here's the thing," I responded. "If you can get up and down the stairs, you're not bothered about those who can't get up and down the stairs."

This mentality spills over into other aspects, as well. About seven years ago, I remember going out of town to see the reunion of some veteran '60s band, which turned out to be a fantastic experience, musically speaking; the logistics, less so, as I discovered when I had to hit the bathroom of this particular corporate shoebox.

Guess what? It was on the second floor! You could either take the stairs, or this elevator that wheezed and whined up to the relevant spot. I was absolutely dead on my feet, having to stand the entire two hours, with nowhere to sit. 

On the way out, my mates pointed to some wooden folding chairs, discreetly tucked away to the side, presumably so that the punters would never, ever think to ask for them. I struggled not to explode, especially as the house lights came up, and staff started shooing us out. Thank you very much, all you walking pound notes and dollar bills; now that we're finished, f#ck off, and get out. Needless to say, I haven't been back since.

But whether it's a corporate venue, or a food pantry, the bottom line is the same. If everybody runs their operations in the predictable manner, with no allowances made for the unusual, or the unexpected, everybody suffers for it, and the public gets poorly served. The whole madness has often prompted me to fantasize aloud, as Squawker and I have done:

"If we ever, ever win a multi-million-dollar lottery payout, we'd invest some of the proceeds to set up the ultimate food pantry. One that will offer a nutritionally sound lineup of offerings, not just sugar and carbs. One that will make allowances for diabetes, gluten free needs, and food allergies. One that prompt everybody else to raise their game, or get out."

Just then, the enormous pink pig flying past my window bumps against the glass, rudely breaking our shared reveries, and sending us back to earth. Still, we can dream, right? And the point still stands, whether you're running a food pantry, or trying to become a crackerjack writer: if you don't get the basics right, there's not much hope for the rest. --The Reckoner

Life's Little Injustices (Take XV): Notebook For Your Thoughts, Anyone?

Strange things happen once your income drops. One side effect is all the people coming out of the woodwork, who can't wait to help you. No, you read that right. That's not a misprint. Let me share my latest experience, and you'll see what I mean.

Due to our present status (or lack thereof), The Squawker and I belong local food co-op. Well, it's basically a food bank, run by one of our local churches, which means you show up twice a month for meetings, and pay $6 to pick up your food. 

This is the only food bank I've seen that gives you meats, which has never happened anywhere else, and you also get lots of staples -- eggs, fresh veggies, plus a commodities box -- which has all definitely helped fill our larder. It's a notch up from what we usually get.

Since it's a church, the less welcome part is the "Life 101" aspect, as I call it. Usually, that means brief lectures from a nurse or doctor at the hospital (Did you get your flu shot today?, and so on). Last week turned out a little different, though.

We had a different guest last week, though -- somebody talking about money management. "Okay, brace yourself, Squawker," I said, under my breath. "This better be good."

And it was, but unintentionally so. The woman (let's call her Pollyana Pennypacker) focused on tracking your spending, which seems reasonable enough. Then she held up the notebook (see Exhibit A above).

"I had a woman who couldn't pay her light bill," Pollyanna said. "It was $69. She said, 'I don't eat out.' Then she said, 'Well, I went to McDonald's, but that's not eating out.' We went through her receipts, and it turned out, she'd spent that $69 on little trips like that. So, whatever you do, write it down. Then you won't spend it!"

Pollyanna then began passing out little notebooks, which the church was apparently giving us, so we wouldn't even think of straying to the counter for that $1 McChicken. 

I don't know how many $1 McChickens will send you down the Freeway To Financial Hell. In our household, we've never seen a light bill under $100. Or a phone bill under $90. Or an insurance bill under $190, to keep our eight- and 15-year-old cars street legal.
 
I took the notebook, though, to be polite. But I couldn't resist the urge to crack wise. Once our meeting ended, I cornered Pollyanna in the church parking lot. "Thanks for the advice," I said, "but you know something? If I'd known you guys were giving me a notebook, I wouldn't have bought one of my own, for a buck."

Pollyanna didn't miss a beat. "Where do you think these came from?" She held up a stack of unissued notebooks. "You can get four of these for a buck at Dollartree."

I forced a smile, thinking about last Sunday, when I didn't have a dime to misspend, even if I'd wanted to, because we had to drop those last 20 bucks for lunch and dinner. I had more money coming Monday, but even so, I didn't appreciate the aggravation.

"Yeah," I said, "I know all about Dollartree. It's made a difference to our budget. We're regulars there, almost every other day, because..." I let the sentence hang in the air, as Pollyanna hurried to palm off another of those notebooks. My salvation still lay a long way off, it seemed. Some days, it just doesn't pay to talk to strangers. --The Reckoner

The Faces Of Hunger (Take Five): A Tale Of Two Dinners

<A Slightly Different Take On Thanksgiving...>
http://www.oilfreefun.com/2012/11/anti-thanksgiving-memes-2012-raising.html

As the above image suggests, not everybody waves their arms in the air and salutes when Turkey Day comes calling. Those who know their history understand the darker reality that's often masked, sidestepped or whitewashed by all those benign depictions of that first Euro-Native American feast...so there's no need to rehash it here.

Suffice to say, the red man soon came down with some serious regrets after the white man crossed his path, as the Gang Of Four summed it up -- so famously, and so eloquently -- on the key graphic that highlights their classic first album, Entertainment (1979): "The Indian smiles, he thinks that the cowboy is his friend. The cowboy smiles, he is glad that the Indian is fooled. Now he can exploit him."

No less distressing, of course, is the orgy of materialism that's become tied up in America's mass gobbling of the turkey...including Black Friday, the by-now obligatory commercialistic blowout that we've (briefly) chronicled on this blog. Squawker and I get a constant, nagging reminder when my brother-in-law calls to brag about whatever he's just purchased with his (presumably) overtaxed, overextended pieces of plastic....he's the only chap I know who actually buys new monitors for his fleet of computers. But I digress.

<i.>

Thanksgiving can feel equally hollow when your cupboard is nearly empty. That's how Squawker and myself wound up at one of our little town's trendier "happening" churches on Tuesday night. lining up for its second-ever free Thanksgiving dinner...you know the drill by now: all comers welcome...everybody's entitled to one fairly hearty plate of turkey (with all the trimmings)...no need to get up, necessarily, because an army of volunteers is ready to serve you...and, by the way, you may want to check out those services some time (just sayin').

Last year's gathering, as the minister noted during his opening comments, drew around 100 people; tonight's affair, on the other hand, verged closer to 300, which required the church to add a heated tent on the left-hand side to accommodate all the extra traffic. Thankfully, Squawker and myself arrived early enough to avoid that particular option. We ended up at the main table near the entrance, sitting practically elbow-to-elbow with our fellow diners in an extreme case of Sensory Overload Theater (as Squawker suggested).

Needless to say, intimacy is hard to come by in such a massive setting, though the minister and his assistant (I presume) did their best to inject the personal touch...but it didn't really work. How could it? At one point, the minister said, "Turn around to the person who's sitting next to you, and say, 'I'm thankful for you.'" The gestured dutifully completed, all concerned turned around to resume chatting with the people they already knew, or those who'd turned up with them...including Squawker and myself, hand on heart.

The phenomenon repeated itself when two women began playing and singing on electric piano and acoustic guitar, respectively. Now, I enjoy live music and events as much as the next person...but not every occasion needs to be truned into a quasi-concert, because such intrusions (real or perceived) tend to make the punters cranky. The women tried their best, but the crowd kept on talking to itself unabated.

We decided not to stick around for the dessert.

<ii.>

On Thanksgiving Day, we drove 10-15 miles in the opposite direction, ready to partake in yet another "come one, come all" community dinner that we needed to stretch what little remained of our food budget. As I've reported here already, things have gotten tighter and tougher since the local welfare authorities whacked our food allowance from the upper $200 range to the princely sum of $16 per month. Put another way, we've had our creativity tested like never before as the end of the month approaches.

This time, however, we found ourselves in the middle of the country...far from the stiff upper lip stodginess, the stolid rigidity, the stultifying snobbishness and stubborn allegiance to old social codes that has left Squawker and myself seeking (if I may quote the Cramps) "some new kind of kick." This particular dinner marked the first of its kind for this local restaurant and winery...we'd only learned about it a week and a half ago on Facebook.

Unlike Tuesday's megachurch-style affair, however, the vibe here felt a whole lot more relaxed. Instead of waiting (and waiting, and waiting a bit longer still) for the same plate that everybody else got, the venue had set out a buffet....where you got in line, and could take what you wanted, as much as you wanted. All comers were welcome, but had to call ahead and RSVP, so the venue would know how many people it planned on serving. Makes sense, doesn't it?

About halfway through the proceedings, one of our mates...whom we'd met at the local disability book club group...turned up, to our surprise, and delight, which jump-started a suitably entertaining conversation about the experiences we'd shared since we last met. At various points, a little girl (one of the owners' or staff's daughters, I reckon) asked if we needed anything, or came to take whatever plates we'd just finished. The whole thing had a down home vibe that both Squawker and I have sorely missed...and, to be honest, rarely experience in our own hometown.

I got up to contemplate the possibility of seconds, but...for safety's sake...decided to pop the question first: "Can we go up again? Is that okay?"

The manager looked at me as though I were kidding: "Of course! It's Thanksgiving, man! If you can't do it here...." He flashed one of those shucks, why are you even asking? sorts of smiles. "When can you do it?"

"Agreed," I said. "Great to hear, thanks!"

Both Squawker and I are used to more controlled settings and situations...where the ringmasters pick and choose what you can bring home. and you don't get a vote in the matter (unless you're obviously allergic to something or other). I'm glad that didn't happen here.

To top it all off...due to a lower than anticipated turnout...the management sent us home with takeout boxes...with white meat, stuffing, rolls, corn, and chocolate cheesecake....which helped answer today's question: "What's for lunch? We're not sure how to fill in those blanks yet."

But, honestly, it felt good to experience this kind of a gathering. People actually talked to us, and treated us like human beings...instead of robotic automatons fit solely for the purpose of scrambling up the social ladder.

In short, this occasion definitely combined "thanks" and "giving," with all the positivity that implies. Now, if Squawker and I get to experience that vibe in our hometown, and not just on a one-shot basis...we'll definitely be happier campers. Time will tell. I'll keep you posted. --The Reckoner

The Faces Of Hunger (Take Four): This Time We Didn't Wait In Line...

(https://lochgarry.wordpress.com/2011/03/29/hunger-in-america-or-to-be-pc-food-insecurity/)

If you ever make it to Britain, you may hear somebody pooh-pooh or dismiss an idea by exclaiming, "F#ck this for a game of soldiers!" (More polite souls may opt for: "Sod this for a game of soldiers!") In a nation adept at coining colorful phrases, this one probably ranks near the top...but what does it mean, exactly? 

I'll let our friends at the Urban Dictionary provide the honor of an explanation:

<Historically soldiers were notorious for becoming engaged in silly and most times (e.g. the game of the "bisquit") non-sense games to kill the time, practice that over time gave them a poorly credible connotation and stereotype. Hence this old fashioned colloquialism (the original version was Sod this for a game of soldiers) compares the foolishness of a certain action/thing with that of "a game of soldiers".>

That phrase practically rolled off my lips this week, when the Squawker and I decided to pay our Friendly Neighborhood Mobile Food Truck a visit. As usual, I was waiting for somebody-or-other for my latest scrap of contract editorial labor...soooo....in light of that issue...we decided it might be wise to augment our latest dwindling nutritional stockpile.

The truck happens to be the project of a local Lutheran church that also provides a free monthly community dinner to all comers. You just basically sign your name, address and household size, and that's it...you're good to go. It's a pretty straightforward affair, unlike other gatherings of this type that we have attended. I've interviewed the woman who runs these programs, and she seems passionate about what she does. The staff and volunteers are also generally kind and responsive.

So, on this particular Thursday afternoon, I'm not sure what happened...because when Squawker and I pulled near the parking lot, we saw a line that snaked all the way from the church's HQ (which occupies a separate building across the street from the chapel itself), to the edge of the road, and further down the sidewalk. 

We did a quick headcount -- there must have been 100-plus people standing there at 1:30 p.m., waiting for the doors to finally yawn open, so they could sign up, and receive a paper ticket to claim their place in line for the truck. it goes without saying that you want to show up as early as possible, since the people with the lowest numbers (generally, from 0-50) get the best stuff first. If you've got a higher number...you get what's left, but the result isn't pretty.

The Squawker and I glanced at each other uneasily. 

Thursday's temperature allegedly stood at around 30 degrees...but the windchill felt much, much colder. And there was a good chilly breeze knocking about, as well.

"I'm not sure if I can stand here this long..."

I surveyed the line more intently. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" I wondered. Just how long have these folks been standing out here, anyway? Looks like it's been awhile...

"Yeah, maybe we should go home," Squawker agreed. "Our number will probably be somewhere in the lower 100s...and the good stuff'll be gone by the time they finally get to us."

"You'd think, though, that they wouldn't force people to stand outside for so long, on such a rotten weather day..." I sighed. This is getting complicated, I told myself. I've got conference calls to transcribe in a couple hours...but if we stay here that long, we'll both turn to icicles.

However, when you lack resources, such ritualized waiting games are par for the course. You can hear the unspoken dialogue bouncing around in your head, and the blanks you fill don't feel terribly comforting: Why are you standing here doing this? Because we can make you, that's why...even if we say "ask you," which sounds so much better on the record. The unspoken punchline isn't far from your mind, either: why do you stand here, freezing with your hands crammed in your pockets? Because you must. Otherwise, you don't get the help. Take what we give you, simple as that. 

"Yeah, it's bullshit...what do you wanna do?" Squawker asked.

And that's when the magic phrase spilled out of my lips: 

"Sod...This...
For...
A Game...Of Soldiers!"

<cut 'n' paste for future reference...>

And then, under my breath, I said: "Tell you what...let's spend twenty of thirty bucks on food to get through the weekend. I've got better things to do today, and so do you."

On that note, we left. 

But I'll see what happened, because -- unlike a lot of other churches that Squawker and I have patronized -- you don't get the usual snotty vibe that makes you feel like something that crawled off a bent coat rack ("Oh, you poor thing, it's you again? Let's show our community how wonderful we are for helping you to macaroni 'n' cheese and never-ending cans of tuna...ah, no need to thank us, dear. Pshaw, pshaw, it was nothing, really.")

If I get a straight answer, I'll let you know. I hesitate to pass judgment on people whom I know fairly well -- maybe it comes down to some overly officious volunteer who hadn't seen the weather forecast (ergo, keep the door locked until somebody says otherwise).

But there's an easy way to remedy the situation...if you're not ready to take people's info, that's fine. However, at least find another entrance door that you can open in the building, and give people a chance to get warm (however briefly). That's called Common Sense 101, which can go out the window on these occasions.

Then again, it could be worse...at least I had $30-odd to drop on food this weekend. We'll see what Monday brings. --The Reckoner

I Wanted Everything (Not Supermarket Sticker Shock)

I heard about the Easter bunny

Presents under a Christmas tree

It was dreaming and fantasy

There was no Mom or Daddy

I wanted everything

I wanted everything

I wanted everything

--"I Wanted Everything" (The Ramones)

I remember the impact that this song made on me, so long ago, when it first appeared on Road To Ruin (1978). Like so many of the late Dee Dee Ramone's lyrics, the mood is one of an emotional ice age and isolation. There's no pulling of any punches, let alone any light relief. The narrator knows the cavalry isn't coming. All that's left is disappointment curdling into icy despair. The answers that he reaches are anything but comforting...which is what made him such a great lyricist, then and now.

I thought about that song again during one of my latest grocery shopping trips. With The Squawker sidelined by health issues, the task fell to me, and the $70 I'd transferred into our bank account last week. So I duly went out and did my duty, figuring that -- while I'm waiting on payment for a couple recent editorial projects -- I can at least acquire the building blocks needed to make our kitchen table hum a little bit.

By the time I finished, I ended up with 59 cents...cue up the cost of living jokes, right? But when the issue hits so close to home...it's really not that funny, especially when you feel that canned laughter being aimed in your general direction.

I had the world on my shoulder
But I was getting older

Knew I was ready for it

Some kind of employment

I wanted everything...

I wanted everything...I wanted everything...

Then again, I wasn't terribly surprised by that outcome. The continued upward spiral of food prices -- and downward pressure on pocketbooks -- isn't a new phenomenon. What is new, however, is seeing the tactics that mainstream grocery stores are adopting to scoop up the few pennies that you're still allowed to take home. For instance...

...on this trip, I noticed a new trend: fewer and fewer choices, with "all or nothing" emerging as the dominant pricing strategy. You either buy that 30-ounce mayonnaise bottle for $3.58 and up, or settle for its piddly, half-size cousin that still winds up costing around $2.39.  Want carrots? Well, two-pound bags run around $2 -- although I've seen some stores in my town pushing the $2.50 envelope -- but you can't get around by buying a one-pound bag. That's now $1.29, instead of 99 cents (quite a steep markup, by any measure). Might as well just cough up that two-dollar bill, eh (if that museum piece is burning up your pocket)? To add further insult to injury, you'll typically see that item going on sale...at the old price.

Another phenomenon is the increasing empty air that you feel in most packaged items. A 28-ounce bag of French fries, for example, is only about 75 percent full; same goes for a bag of rippled potato chips, or chicken strips...if you go in for that sort of thing. Other times, I've noticed the actual sizes being downsized, particularly on in-store brands (such as from 28 to 26 ounces on those French fry bags).

Watch your life flash
before your eyes...along with your food budget...

All day working on a truck

Bringing the groceries up

Not much of a salary

No tip for the delivery

I wanted everything

I wanted everything
I wanted everything...

There's no success for me

Involved in a robbery

There's money in the supermarket

And I'm going after it

I wanted everything...

Like most shoppers, naturally, the Squawker and I have had to rethink some of the strategies we used to beat previous price spikes. The presence of more grocery stores doesn't necessarily translate into a break for your pocketbook, as we saw a couple of summers ago when the Meijer chain opened a new store within six miles of our home -- sparing the need to trek across town and shop at its sister location. However, the highly-anticipated pricing war never materialized (despite a lot of tongue wagging around town). A couple years ago, someone tried to start a food co-op here...only to abandon the idea when she couldn't get enough people to sign up. Apparently, not enough of our fellow townies are fed up enough with paying $1.69 for a 15-ounce can of stewed tomatoes...but I digress.

Meijer and its local rivals seem to have reached a gentleman's agreement to keep their prices within line of each other, and most of their sale items are typically focused on the processed crap that Squawker and I can't absorb into our gullets. For example, I always see Ekrich bologna on sale...always, always, always...but never any of the higher-grade meats, whether they're packaged or cut at the counter. In those cases, you'll either cough up $4.50 to $7 per pound, depending on your needs.

And that's what makes those extreme couponing shows so annoying -- watching all these perpetually bubbly suburban moms racing to fill up an armada of shopping carts with boxes of macaroni and cheese, jars of peanut butter and other questionable choices is a surreal experience, to put it mildly. Fed up with the whole spectacle, the Squawker and I have turned to Asian and Mexican groceries as an alternative -- which seems to be paying better dividends (so far, anyway). Instead of worrying if we can splurge $7.70 on a cooked chicken, we can easily get about 2.5 pounds for the same price....which lasts a bit longer, and allows us to plan two (or even three) meals. On the flipside, it means quite a lot more cooking from scratch, which ensures a longer evening.

The Oxfam blog link below lays out the big picture pretty well, for those who are paying attention: "The early research suggests price rises are bringing about social change by stealth, as people and their relationships to food (and each other) are being commodified faster than ever before.  Policymakers seem oblivious to these changes, obsessed as they are with changes they can measure."  That last sentence is overly charitable...personally, I suspected that they were half asleep.

It's tempting to imagine how Dee Dee might react to these pricing trends today, if he were searching for a few items to inspire his latest  songwriting...judging by the scenario that he lays out in the last verse, it's fair to say that minimum wage work and the cost of living didn't quite agree with him. The Squawker and I will continue to strategize as best as we can, but it's fair to say that we're not looking at a pretty picture...at least, in the short run.  -- The Reckoner

Links To Go (The Cost Of Living Strikes Again)
Oxfam: From Poverty To Power:
Squeezed: How Are Poor People
Adjusting To Life In A Time Of Food Price Volatility?:
http://oxfamblogs.org/fp2p/squeezed-how-are-poor-people-adjusting-to-life-in-a-time-of-food-price-volatility/

USA Today:
Rising Food Prices Pinching Consumers:
http://www.usatoday.com/story/money/business/2014/04/16/cpi-shows-food-prices-rising/7742669/

Your Friendly Neighborhood Food Pantry (Nutrition Through Attrition)

(I haven't seen a food bank or pantry yet that doesn't have this 

particular item...presumably, the low price point
has something to do with that phenomenon.)

<Diminishing Returns, Take I>

The end of January rolled around.
Our bank account ran dry as our food stocks began running like sands through the proverbial hourglass. Our refrigerator hadn't looked this bare in this long.  The odd stream of income continued to trickle in, but the returns were no match for the bills constantly barreling into our mailbox.

My turn in the eBay corral hadn't met expectations, either. Last week, I sold three CDs for $38, but coughed up $5.35 in fees -- hey, no wonder people are jumping ship to Craigslist, right?

The Squawker's blinks telegraphed the anxiety long before the inevitable question arrived: "We don't have a lot left this weekend...should we hit the food bank?  I found one that's open from ten to noon on Saturday."

"Well, usually, these things turn sour, because..."  Now it was my turn to exhale.  "It's mostly cheese, tuna, and junk food...and there's usually never any meat at these things."

"Actually, this church is one of the better food banks around here..."

"What the hell," I shrugged.  "I don't mind being wrong if it helps the cause...get me up when it's time."

(The stuff of nightmares...when your pockets and your stomach are empty...)

<Diminishing Returns, Take II>

The initial signs looked promising (at first).

We didn't have to stand in line; we could walk right in. We didn't have to fill out a lot of paperwork, listen to a sermon, or keep our best poker face while somebody picked out a bunch of dented canned goods and called it even.  We just could pick up a brown grocery bag full of whatever they'd set aside, and go home.

The people running the food bank seemed nice enough. In all fairness, though, the situation didn't leave a lot of room for extensive conversation.

The Squawker and I headed back out to the car. As I heaved the bag into the hatchback, my heart sank. Two boxes of macaroni and cheese? Check.  One can of tuna? Check. One giant box of Fruit Loops? Double-check.

Unfortunately, Squaker's fish and potato allergies -- and Type 2 diabetes -- make such items a no-go zone, although the remaining ones that I could make out (a few cans of corn and green beans there, an Ekrich franks there) redeemed the situation somewhat.

"Want me to swap the cereal?" I asked.

The Squawker nodded. "Yeah, why don't you?  I can't eat that stuff..."

I tucked the Fruit Loops box under my arm, and dashed back inside.  I gestured at the large, bright orange cornflake boxes that occupied every other bag, or so. Apparently, the luck of the draw had worked against us there. 

"Hey, I live with a diabetic, so would you mind if I could swap this box for..."

I walked back outside with the cornflakes. Nobody made an issue of the request. Like I said, the people seemed nice enough...but how do the contents of those grocery bags get picked out?

Does somebody flip a coin, check the I Ching, or throw a dart?

And does somebody eat this stuff at home regularly?  I won't ponder that issue for too long, either. Call it the New American Way: Nutrition Through Attrition.  (What, you expect meat at these affairs?  Look how much weight you'll lose...the pressures of life are funny like that.)

(Believe it or not, we got this, too...stale panini loaf, anyone?)

(We've got a winner here...note the non-GMO, non-artificial content
labeling: about the only entry in this particular grocery bag that qualified
with this particular designation)

<Diminishing Returns, Take III>

We put away our grocery stuff and headed to a different church community dinner at noon.

We got pasta with ham slices plus a side of corn, a roll, a salad and a small chocolate cupcake...so on this occasion, at least, you had the four basic food groups represented.

You could also take home seconds in a styrofoam box, but had to wait until one o'clock for them (house rules, and so on).

We used fifteen of our last twenty bucks to get through the weekend. By Tuesday, we'd run through what little remained from our last grocery trip. I threw up my hands and made a couple phone calls.

The first went to an editor of mine for an advance on future earnings; the second went to a longtime friend for a small loan...call it insurance, I guess, to make it through the week.

Next month will come around, I'll get paid for a few more projects. Hopefully, the returns get better...I won't need to work off anymore loans for awhile...and I won't have to practice nutrition through attrition so soon. Time will tell, I suppose. --The Reckoner

The Faces Of Hunger (Take Three): The Mobile Food Pantry Line

The end of the month lay a good 10 days ahead. Our proverbial cupboard yawned empty yet again, however, as I regrettably informed The Squawker: "Shall do we it, then?"

"Afraid so," The Squawker sighed.  "We're out of everything, and we won't have anymore money coming in till Monday."

I slid on my warmup jacket and glanced once more inside the refrigerator, whose remaining contents -- a half-empty bottle of mayonnaise here, a barely-full bag of carrots there -- made its yawning emptiness all the more apparent.  "Right, you've got a point...let's go, then, eh?"

Today marked the mobile food pantry's inaugural visit. The project was the brainchild of our local Lutheran church, whose management regime had already been hosting free dinners on Saturdays (see "The Faces Of Hunger [Scenes From A Church Dinner]" for further details).

For The Squawker and I, this noble experiment seemed like a significant upgrade on that particular idea, but we didn't entertain any great expectations.  At last count, the community dinners were drawing 100-150 people, but nothing could have prepared us for the scene that we encountered, once we pulled up.

The line stretched as far the eye cared to roam, for roughly six blocks -- starting at the alley, past the local museum and further ahead into the church parking lot. We'd anticipated a fair crowd, so we made a point of getting there by 3:30 p.m., a full hour before the event itself.

From the looks of things, we'd underestimated the demand. I pulled into a distant corner, and reached to grab our trusty plastic storage tub off the back seat.

I'd have to carry the flag -- or, in this case, the tub -- since the Squawker's breathing difficulties make lengthy walks, or more than a couple minutes of standing still, a problematic proposition.

"How many people do you think are here?" the Squawker asked.

I turned around again, to have a look.  "Hmmm...off the top of my head, I'd say, between 200 and 300.  It's been awhile since I've counted a crowd," I yawned.  "Wish me luck, then..."

I'd hardly taken my place in line, when a couple of older black women noticed the storage tub.  They asked if the house rules specified bringing your own container, because nobody had told them, apparently.

I looked around. Almost everybody seemed to be clutching something, whether it was a plastic grocery bag, cardboard box or shoulder bag.

"You know what? I've got cardboard boxes," I told the women.  "I always use carry a few, when I'm shipping records..."  The anxiety vanished from their faces.  "You can use some of mine."

A thirtyish black man standing next to me perked up.  "You ship records?  I love vinyl, man, I'm an old school guy, myself..."  He also stood empty-handed.

"Nothing wrong with that," I smiled.  "You can have a couple boxes, too."

I went back to the van, as the women followed behind me, and opened the hatchback.  I handed them a couple folded cardboard boxes apiece, and gave a couple more to my fellow vinyl enthusiast, who'd saved my place in line.

"Thanks, man."

"Don't mention it," I said, squinting into the sun.

Young moms with toddlers lined up with middle-aged, middle-class refugees like myself...young men no longer on the make...grandmothers who sported a lifetime of varicose veins on their legs...and older gents in their fifties and sixties, who'd spent their lives toiling away...until the system discarded them, without a blink, or a second thought.

The sight seemed oddly breathtaking. In another life, another time, we could have been stands-ins from a grainy Norman Rockwell painting, united by a common purpose...which, on those occasion, happened to be feeding ourselves. The faces of hunger were back in town.

I signed the paperwork, on behalf of The Squawker and myself, and set the storage tub on the ground. In the middle of the lot stood the mammoth white Spartan Foods van, with its innards opened up on both sides, from which the volunteers unloaded cardboard containers and bags, setting them down on the tables in front of us.

The line inched forward, and within 10 minutes, I collected a hefty bag of potatoes. I hesitated, at first (The Squawker's allergic, but maybe I can make potato pancakes -- yeah, that's it, like Dad used to make), but I threw them into the tub, anyway.

Gradually, the line snaked around the Spartan Food truck cab.  I scooped a couple of club soda bottles into the tub, plus a couple of Diet Pepsi and Sierra Mist 2-liter bottles (God, I hate Sierra Mist, it's not something I'd buy in the store.  Still, beggars can't be...y'know...).

Soon, we made our way to the other side, where a flurry of chicken and ham packages disappeared in front of me.

The difficulties sharpened into focus. They'd run out of meat, knocking a hole in our plans to bridge the gap for the weekend, until our next short-term burst of cash arrived.   Slowly, inevitably, the line began to wind down.

In quick succession, I collected a loaf of sourdough bread (cool, nice to score a Squawker perennial for the kitchen), a cardboard box of yogurt (God, I hate this stuff, I don't care if you two-bit f#ckers in Eastern Europe feast on this stuff, still, beggars can't be...y'know), and..last, but not least...a box of leftover birthday cake (Not sure what we'll do with this, but still...beggars can't be...y'know...).

Other than a fistful of small bananas, I didn't see a fruit -- or vegetable -- in sight.

I pushed the tub across the ground with my foot, ever so slowly, until I made it back to the van.  The Squawker watched closely as I opened the side door, and heaved the whole lot inside.  "Did you get any meat?"

"Afraid not, dear Squawker...they ran out before they got to me."

"Ah, man...we'll come a little earlier next time."

"I suppose."

As we pulled out of the parking lot, I wondered what someone with food allergies might do in this situation...or someone diabetic, like the Squawker, for instance...or, for that matter, anyone requiring a diet that didn't depend on heavily processed food.

I pushed all those thoughts of my mind, in short order.  After all, we hadn't gotten any meat...so we'd have to figure something out for the weekend.

CODA
The next day, I called a friend, and had him to wire a loan, so we could get through the weekend.  We ended up giving him the yogurt on his next social visit. I've paid him back about a quarter of the loan, so far.

We gave the potatoes away to a different friend.  The birthday cake turned out to be stale, and -- since it was taking up a good deal of the upper shelf -- little more than a space waster, so it went in the bin.  This is what happens when the faces of hunger come to town.  --The Reckoner

The Faces Of Hunger (Take Two): Your Friendly Neighborhood Food Pantry & Another Church Dinner

On any given month, the last week becomes something of a scramble for The Squawker and yours truly, The Reckoner.

There's no precious little reason to the proceedings; often, it's simply down to the calendar's infernal rhythms. Stretching resources over a five-week month, versus a four-week one, becomes ever more challenging -- so when you run out, you run out, simple as that.

As the Squawker and myself have seen, food is typically the first resource to go. Last month (July 24), we visited one of our Friendly Neighborhood Food Pantries...I had a freelancing check coming, but it was three or four days off, which feels like a lifetime in this situation.

Mumbling, "Beggars can't be choosers," or some such nostrum, the Squawker and myself tropped off to the pantry...and we could only tell ourselves, "What a difference a year makes!"

Previously, you could count on some type of meat item – be it chicken, or canned somthing-or-other – but, alas, not on this occasion. We were Ninth and Tenth in a line of ten, so by the time we were called, they'd run out of chicken...all the operators could provide in this area were packages of some off-brand lunch meat. They apologized profusely; we shrugged it off, responding, "Beggars can't be choosers."

Or perhaps they should get a bit more choosy: when the Squawker and I unpacked our solitary cardboard box's contents at home, we found that both lunch meat packets were, shall we say, a good seven or eight months past their expiration date.

So we pitched them into the wastebin; no sense in playing "Territory" with our stomachs, we thought.

Admittedly, we haven't visited as many pantries this summer, as we were forced to do last fall, and winter...but, when we have made the pilgrimage, we're noticing expiration dates of six months to a year old on certain things,...particularly on canned goods, and packaged items, such as the odd box of crackers (which make a good ingredient for ground meat dishes).

Are we simply seeing more stock from the bottom of the barrel, or shelf (so to speak), as more people turn to food pantries? That's one piece of speculation that the Squawker and I have bandied about, but without outside confirmation, we can't say for sure.

Suffice to say, when my check did arrive, we were never so glad to see $100 in our lives.

Four days later (July 28), the Squawker and I experienced a totally different scene: another free community dinner put on by one of the local Lutheran churches, at its nearby recreation center -- as always, open to all comers...first come, first served, and all that.

Of course, a "dinner" that starts at 11:30 a.m. is closer to a community lunch...we need not beat the neo-Orwellian implications to death.

The Squawker and I periodically attend these dinners to stretch our food budget -- particularly at the end of the month, when money's a bit tighter. This time, we knew something was up as we rolled into the parking lot, and saw the line snaking right up near the entrance doors.

I volunteered to get out, and hold a place for both of us. After a roughly 10-minute wait, I beckoned the Squawker to join me, and once we made our way inside, we encountered an extraordinary scene. Last time, I think we didn't see more than three dozen people. This time, though, my quick count showed roughly 100 people filling the room, with hardly an empty chair or table place in sight.

Even so, we wanted some peace and quiet, so once we'd filled our plates with chicken -- augmented with cole slaw and mashed potatoes for me, and a timely substitution of rolls for the Squawker, who's allergic to foods of the mashed variety -- we made a beeline for the great outdoors.

We sat on the concrete ledge outside, watching people as they came and went, or braved another wait in line for seconds. Now and again, one of the church servers made noises about us being required to eat inside. I solved that problem by telling them, "We're just catching some fresh air, we'll be back in a minute."

A different worker came out every time, so we got away with this exercise in dramatic license.

Looking around, it was easy to feel trapped in some '90s-era comedy skit, an impression underscored by one hulking person's Homey The Clown T-shirt, and the various pixie or fringed haircuts that many of the women still sported, in defiance of all subsequent fashion norms.

Even so, at least I recognized a handful of people from last time, but could only wonder: how far and wide has the word spread? Where'd all these new people come from, and are they here for the same reason?

And, lastly, what does this explosion of numbers say about where we're headed?

We didn't stick around to ponder the implications. Having cleared our plates...and weary of a Saturday afternoon that threatened to soar past the mid-80-degree mark...we got back in the car and headed home, to reclaim what remained of our peace and quiet. --The Reckoner

The Faces Of Hunger: Scenes From A Church Dinner

The one-two punch of poverty and hunger often results in strange, neo-Orwellian terminology...such as a monthly Saturday "community dinner" that one of our local churches hosts at 11:30 a.m.  As far as The Reckoner is cnocerned, that's lunch, under any other name.  By popular consensus, we generally don't worry about eating dinner until six o'clock or thereabouts, right?

At any rate, this particular dinner comes without strings attached.  You won't have to listen to a moral lecture, before being getting to take your plate.  You don't have to fill out a signup sheet, or leave any other official vapor trail -- unlike most food pantries, which must do the paperwork tapdance to satisfy whatever federal agency may be assisting them. 

No, this event is simple and to the point: no charge, open to all comers...just line up and fill your plate: take seconds, if you like, even.  The Squawker and myself have eaten here twice, when the emptying of our refrigerator -- coupled with an equally depleted wallet -- left no other choice.

And the food is decent -- again, served without fuss or frills, but a notch above most of the local pantries. The first time, we got ham slices as the featured item; this time, it was Sloppy Joes. Again, such things may not be your first choice, but when your stomach (and wallet) are growling, you're unlikely to feel terribly picky.

Evidently, word has traveled fast, because only a couple weeks ago, Dinner #2 was packed to the rafters -- looking around the church's large circular meeting room, The Squawker and myself estimated that 60 people turned out, or roughly 20 more than the first dinner we attended. Had we arrived a few minutes later than we did (at 11:45 a.m.), it's quite possible that we wouldn't gotten a seat.

Glancing around the room, however, I was struck by the types of people that we observed -- a roughly 60-40 split between African-Americans and older whites (aged 45-60), respectively. We're still in our lower to mid-40s, so the Squaker and myself were easily the youngest people here, though we also spotted quite a few people with disabilities, as well.

As we took our plates -- and seats -- one other thought struck me.  I only recognized one face in the room, and that was a fiftysomething African-American woman whom I'd interviewed recently at a health fair. Otherwise, all these people were strangers to us; we certainly didn't recall seeing them around town. 

Where did these people come from?  Obviously, they didn't feel that any better options existed, or they wouldn't have shown up, right?  A million thoughts flooded our heads. Would we find ourselves in this tight spot again next month, and how many of these faces would we see again?  What kinds of stories might we hear?

These people aren't abstractions.  They're the faces of hunger in every community -- somebody's loved one, neighbor or friend, yet sorely lacking the gravitational pull that automatically accompanies large corporate donations to your favorite Tweedledee or Tweedledum running for office...

...in short, these are the people whose faces are totally forgotten and ignored by the Washington, D.C. power structure. If we make it out again...we'll see what happens at next month's dinner. --The Reckoner