Leeks and watermelon
Every other week, I walk a mile and a half from my apartment to a little run-down church in Medford. While the church itself is Unitarian Universalist, a religion I have no direct knowledge of but loosely associate with individual freedom to search for God, there is a group of volunteers who run a weekly food pantry out of the church's front hallway. They have no shared religion, although many of them do seem the old-fashioned Christian values type, back when a belief in God included duties and obligations to humanity, not just personal privileges.
When I arrive, there is already a buzz of activity. Boxes of vegetables line the church pews, which we sort into white plastic mail tubs along the front row: eggplants and squash, onions, potatoes, apples, citrus fruits, grapes, tomatoes, and at least one miscelaneous tub with the odd artichoke, box of mushrooms, yucca root, or bean sprouts. Huge reused Chiquita banana boxes are filled with a bizarre amalgamation of foodstuffs to be sorted: some from Trader Joe's, some from Whole Foods, filled with fresh vegetables alongside tubs of egg salad or mango salsa, English muffins, pre-packaged salads and wraps, tiny individual-sized cheesecakes or brownies. We swarm around the boxes like bees on a flower, grabbing what we can and sorting it all out. Bread over here, produce over there. Desserts are hidden in a corner, as our guests are only allowed to chose one after they have gotten all their other goods. Dry goods we receive in larger shipments once or twice a month from the Greater Boston Food Bank: dried beans are the most popular, canned soup and vegetables less so, rice and pasta and cereal are always taken gratefully. The children beg for juice and peanut butter, while the little foil-topped cups of applesauce are often passed by. Once everything is sorted and we open our doors to the line waiting outside, our guests move slowly through the hallway as we offer them limited choices for each food category. You may chose two soups tonight, and any 3 of the dried or canned beans. Would you like applesauce or a specialty item? Rice or pasta. Juice or cereal. Any 3 bags of bread. Produce has been chosen and bagged for them, but many people try to pick through for what they want- we have to ask them to use a side table if they want to sort their items, as the line piles up behind them.
The majority of our guests who visit each week are Haitian Creole ladies. Many of them have children in tow, one or two are pregnant, occasionally there is a man with them, but very rarely. Some are very friendly, some are not. Some speak English, some do not. They seem to do their best to dress well, as this is a social occasion of sorts. I wonder if they're judging the friends and neighbors they meet there, or if they're just happy for the occasion to meet and chat while waiting in line. There is no sense of humiliation or shame when they come in, unlike some of our caucasian guests, they hold their heads up, laughing and chatting and carefully inspecting any food they put in their bags, as easily as if they were at the supermarket. What I most surprising about this group is how completely their tastes in food differ from what might be supposed the "American Standard." While I eye up the more expensive products we give out, considering how lucky our guests are to be offered wild mushrooms or mango salsa or chocolate cheesecake, they often pass these items up. Dried beans and rice are their staples, and if they're given white rice, they'll ask if we have any brown. Leeks and scallions are highly sought-after, and yet the big yellow onions get left behind. Potatoes are frowned at, inspected suspiciously, and often cast aside. Chocolate does not seem to hold sway with this group of women, but croissants are immensely popular. Their unique blend of heritage is reflected in the familiar foods they seek out: french baguettes and croissant, rice and beans, bananas, melons, and tropical fruits. So much of our common American food arouses trepidation, or at best disinterest, that I wonder if half the things we give them ever get eaten. Do their children like blue box mac and cheese? What do they make out of the canned spaghetti sauce and stuffing mixes they take home? Have they given in to the simplicity of our pre-made, ready-to-eat products, or do they creatively subvert these ingredients to fit into their own family recipes, they own idea of what food should be?
When I arrive, there is already a buzz of activity. Boxes of vegetables line the church pews, which we sort into white plastic mail tubs along the front row: eggplants and squash, onions, potatoes, apples, citrus fruits, grapes, tomatoes, and at least one miscelaneous tub with the odd artichoke, box of mushrooms, yucca root, or bean sprouts. Huge reused Chiquita banana boxes are filled with a bizarre amalgamation of foodstuffs to be sorted: some from Trader Joe's, some from Whole Foods, filled with fresh vegetables alongside tubs of egg salad or mango salsa, English muffins, pre-packaged salads and wraps, tiny individual-sized cheesecakes or brownies. We swarm around the boxes like bees on a flower, grabbing what we can and sorting it all out. Bread over here, produce over there. Desserts are hidden in a corner, as our guests are only allowed to chose one after they have gotten all their other goods. Dry goods we receive in larger shipments once or twice a month from the Greater Boston Food Bank: dried beans are the most popular, canned soup and vegetables less so, rice and pasta and cereal are always taken gratefully. The children beg for juice and peanut butter, while the little foil-topped cups of applesauce are often passed by. Once everything is sorted and we open our doors to the line waiting outside, our guests move slowly through the hallway as we offer them limited choices for each food category. You may chose two soups tonight, and any 3 of the dried or canned beans. Would you like applesauce or a specialty item? Rice or pasta. Juice or cereal. Any 3 bags of bread. Produce has been chosen and bagged for them, but many people try to pick through for what they want- we have to ask them to use a side table if they want to sort their items, as the line piles up behind them.
The majority of our guests who visit each week are Haitian Creole ladies. Many of them have children in tow, one or two are pregnant, occasionally there is a man with them, but very rarely. Some are very friendly, some are not. Some speak English, some do not. They seem to do their best to dress well, as this is a social occasion of sorts. I wonder if they're judging the friends and neighbors they meet there, or if they're just happy for the occasion to meet and chat while waiting in line. There is no sense of humiliation or shame when they come in, unlike some of our caucasian guests, they hold their heads up, laughing and chatting and carefully inspecting any food they put in their bags, as easily as if they were at the supermarket. What I most surprising about this group is how completely their tastes in food differ from what might be supposed the "American Standard." While I eye up the more expensive products we give out, considering how lucky our guests are to be offered wild mushrooms or mango salsa or chocolate cheesecake, they often pass these items up. Dried beans and rice are their staples, and if they're given white rice, they'll ask if we have any brown. Leeks and scallions are highly sought-after, and yet the big yellow onions get left behind. Potatoes are frowned at, inspected suspiciously, and often cast aside. Chocolate does not seem to hold sway with this group of women, but croissants are immensely popular. Their unique blend of heritage is reflected in the familiar foods they seek out: french baguettes and croissant, rice and beans, bananas, melons, and tropical fruits. So much of our common American food arouses trepidation, or at best disinterest, that I wonder if half the things we give them ever get eaten. Do their children like blue box mac and cheese? What do they make out of the canned spaghetti sauce and stuffing mixes they take home? Have they given in to the simplicity of our pre-made, ready-to-eat products, or do they creatively subvert these ingredients to fit into their own family recipes, they own idea of what food should be?
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