It’s a two minute bike
ride from my place on Queen Street to the Parkdale Food Bank, but I really
wasn’t looking forward to the trip on Saturday after yet another snow fall.
It’s been a few years since we’ve had this much white stuff before the
beginning of winter. Queen Street to Cowan wasn’t too bad but the side street
was not as clear and driving over snow feels a little like it feels when you
don’t have enough air in your tires. The last run of the plough had left a
ridge of broken snow at the mouth of the driveway at the back of the food bank,
so I couldn’t drive in as usual, but had to walk and lift my bike over. I also
had to lift and back it into position beside the tree where I like to lock it
because there was about ten centimeters to step and push through to get there.
There were two Tibetan guys standing
and chatting near the driveway entrance and one of them had on a winter coat
that said Toronto Police on a badge on the shoulder. The guy was clearly in
line for the food bank, so I was thinking that the cops must have really fallen
on bad times. But then I noticed that the emblem also said, “Crossing Guard”
and wondered if a lot of crossing guards are living in poverty. Most make
$13.81 but are only guaranteed three hours a day and that three hours would be
split over an eight hour period which means traveling to and from work several
times a day. I would imagine that after taxes they might walk away with less
than $200.00 a week, if they don’t have
other sources of income they’d definitely be well below the poverty line.
I asked the two Tibetan guys if they
were last in line but they pointed to someone else but I couldn’t figure out
whom. The tall, middle-aged French Canadian guy, who was the only one smoking
at the time, told me that I was about number thirteen. I told him that I didn’t
care about the numbers and wanted to know who I was behind. He pointed at a red
basket-cart marking a place in a line of various other carts and objects in the
snow and said that I was right behind that. I told him I didn’t care about the
cart either and wanted to know which person I was behind. The big Jamaican
woman sitting over by the door smiled and waved at me to indicate that it was
she. I smiled back and said, “Hi!”
I thought about making a snowman to
mark my place in line and even bumming a cigarette to stick in the proxy’s
mouth. It would have been funny to find a little hooked branch for an arm with
smaller branches at the end for fingers and to stick the cigarette in between
them and to position it like the snowman was holding the smoke to his face to
take a drag, but the snow was way too powdery for packing.
Then the French Canadian guy butted
out his fag, the older man with the Union Jack on his earphones lit up. He
smoked several cigarettes as we were waiting and his seemed to last forever
because it spent most of its time burning in his hand. Then an African guy
bummed a smoke from him and several others started smoking at the same time. I
went out to the sidewalk to avoid the smoke, but there was only a narrow path
cleared for people to walk by so I had to step off into the snow several times
to let them pass.
A young guy with a snow pusher
walked into the driveway out of breath, placed the shovel under the fire escape
and then resumed the position of waiting for the food bank like everyone else.
He had just shoveled the walk from the driveway down to King Street and I think
he might have done it o a volunteer basis. He asked someone to tell him if they
saw steam coming off of him because he felt so hot under his coat. A couple of
the women sitting by the door confirmed that they saw steam coming out of his
mouth.
The big volunteer with the
prematurely grey hair come out of the food bank and held the door open while he
shouted back inside, “Is this the day that you’re giving out the gift
certificates?” Then he closed the door and explained to everybody that he was
just messing around because he thought it would be funny if everyone started
asking them for gift certificates. Then he went out to the sidewalk and had a
smoke before taking a place in line.
At close to 10:30 I took my place in
line behind the red cart, in front of the tall guy with the crooked cane and a
guy that looks like Norm McDonald. They were discussing how the Social Services
cheque comes early in December, making January all the more difficult. I said
that one gets the GST in early January. He nodded but lamented that that was
the last GST until one has paid one’s taxes. I told him that the GST begins in
July so one still gets a cheque in April for the previous year.
The guy with the cane complained
about the taxes on booze and cigarettes and I reminded him that soon it would
be on marijuana as well. He nodded and said that the Natives are probably all
ready start growing pot to offer cheap joints like they do cigarettes. Then he
started talking about how harsh native cigarettes are, that they are basically
just tar sticks and that a friend of his got lung disease just from smoking
Native tobacco. That surprised me, as I’d always envisioned Natives growing
natural, organic tobacco. He informed me that they don’t even farm the tobacco
themselves but rather go to auctions where they buy entire lots made up of
bales of the cheapest stuff they can get. I looked it up online and couldn’t
find a single glowing review of Native cigarettes. Someone in a chat group
wrote that they taste like one is smoking rolled up sawdust.
Once the line started moving and I
was close to the door, the volunteer in charge of letting people in started smoking
a cigarette near me where I was trapped in line. I told him that he should be
smoking nine meters away from the door. He pointed at the door and asked if I
saw a “No Smoking” sign there. I told him that there doesn’t have to be a sign
because there is a bylaw in place. He asked if I had a badge. I answered, “No,
but I have lungs, and your smoke is causing them harm!” He countered that air
pollution causes lung problems too. I said, “Really? You’re going to bring up
air pollution to justify what you do to other people?” He became defensive and
argued that this was his only break, so what was he supposed to do. I told him
that he should smoke further away. “But I’m watching the door!” he protested.
“Well then” I asserted, “You shouldn’t be smoking while you’re doing it!”
He let the next five people in, but I heard him say bitterly behind me,
“I feel really appreciated!” and he said it twice.
His volunteer work is to be commended, but the good things we do don’t
cancel out the wrong things we do. You don’t get to give somebody emphysema
just because you sacrifice your time to give them a few packages of starch and
a can of tuna.
When we were inside, the big Jamaican woman in front of me said that I
was right and the French Canadian guy agreed, and related how he’d once been
told by a volunteer not to smoke near the doorway, so he thought it was
hypocritical for one of them to be smoking there this time.
I got number 12. I asked Desmond if I could pick up my turkey before I
came back for my food. He said that I could and so I went to do so but I got
mixed messages. Finally, Hazel said that I could and took me to the freezer,
but the turkeys were all very large and I didn’t think that one of them would
fit in my freezer, which is starting to ice up. She offered me a smaller one
that was missing a wing, but I turned it down and I wasn’t sure why. If that
had been all they had I would have taken it, but they had more down in the
freezer and so I said I’d just get one when I came back later. I think I felt
at the moment she offered the incomplete turkey that it would be degrading to
take it. Perhaps I refused it because taking it would symbolically make me
appear as an incomplete person. I’ve bought turkeys that were missing parts
before though and it didn’t make me feel that way. Maybe it’s because it’s a
type of gift and so it would be like someone giving me a copy of “War and
Peace” with the last page ripped out.
I went home for about twenty minutes and then came back to the food
bank.
There were a couple of people hanging out in the far back of the alley,
just around the corner, where I couldn’t fully see them. I assume they were
smoking a doobie. A few minutes later two of the volunteers, the guy with the
prematurely grey hair and one of the guys that tends to work the reception
desk, came walking from the back. The one guy went back inside while the other
stood waiting for his number to be called while drinking from an enormous
bottle of Labatt’s 50 that looked like it held at least two liters of beer.
The sparrows were going crazy behind the food bank. Perhaps they were
finding it more difficult to find food because of the snow and so they were
nervously flitting around people in hopes of a handout. From a human
perspective it looked like they were having a good time chasing each other from
branch to branch, doing little sidestep dances up and down twigs, flying their
chubby little bellies around the driveway and taking swooping dives to touch
their feet in the snow without landing. Some of them were gathering on the
ledge of a vent that made a depression into the second floor of the abandoned
building across the driveway from the food bank. There were some sitting
briefly on a tree in front of me behind the garbage bins. On top of one of the
bins was a puffy half eaten donut with sprinkles, so I picked it up and tossed
it in the snow in front of where the sparrows were perched. It made a deep hole
but its impact pulled down the snow from its own craters rim down on top of it,
so that when one of the sparrows flew to its edge to investigate, all it could
see was snow at the bottom of the hole. A large group landed near the sewer
grate in the middle of the driveway, perhaps to drink some melted snow, but
they never stayed anywhere for long and suddenly flew off together to look for
other opportunities.
When Joe called numbers 10 to 20, I went inside, and by the time I sat
down and pulled by bags out of my backpack, a short woman with prematurely grey
hair called my number.
The top shelf was brimming with various items, of which I was told that
I could pick one, unless I took a box of pancake mix, in which case I could
also have a bottle of pancake syrup. Pancakes are great sometimes; especially
if they are made from scratch and served with real maple syrup, but I’d say
pancakes from a box topped with something made with high fructose corn syrup
may be the worst breakfast one could make. If you’re going to have all that
starch and sugar, why work at it? Just pour some Count Chocula into a bowl and
make it a quick fix. I grabbed the bottle of Asian Sesame salad dressing. My
volunteer then told me that I wasn’t supposed to pick things for myself and
that I had to point out what I wanted and have her take it for me. That was
such a new one on me in the more than a hundred times I’ve gone to that food
bank that I didn’t even point how counter intuitive, illogical and time
consuming such a rule would be, so I just went along with it. It’s a good thing
the tiny elderly volunteer doesn’t have that attitude, otherwise she’d have to
move a stepladder along for each set of shelves and climb it to get the things
I’ve selected on the third shelf and the top.
Below that were various crackers and cookies, and I took the bag of
roasted onion, garlic and herb pita crackers.
From the bottom on the left she gave me four chocolate chip Larabars,
which are actually all-natural and made with fair trade chocolate, though from
what I’ve read, “fair trade” doesn’t necessarily translate into the fairness
for the farmers that one envisions when one buys the product.
At the bottom right there was a very attractive package that I had to
pick up to read. It turned out to be some kind of polenta mix, so I put it
back.
I skipped the pasta, rice and sauce.
From the canned bean shelf I took the one can of curried cauliflower and
lentil. My volunteer said, “That’s not supposed to be there!” but told me I
could take it.
From the canned meat and fish section, which was well stocked for a
change, I asked for a can of tuna.
From the cereal section I asked for the protein Cheerios.
The volunteer concluded that I was a “health nut” based on my choices.
Angie wasn’t there this time, and a woman I didn’t recognize was minding
the cold section. I took a half-liter of milk instead of juice and six small
fruit bottom yogourts instead of cottage cheese. In the frozen meat bin there
was a choice between generic ground chicken that sometimes includes finely
ground gristle, bologna (which Desmond
referred to earlier as “Newfie Steaks”) and a bag of frozen pieces of roast
beef. I took the roast beef, but when I later looked at the ingredients I was a
bit alarmed. I would have thought that the ingredients of roast beef would just
be beef, but it had: water, rice starch, dextrose, salt, corn syrup,
maltodextrine, potassium chloride, spice and spice extractive, sodium
phosphate, potassium lactate, caramel colour, autolyzed yeast extract, flavours
(with soy) and or sugar, cultured corn sugar, sea salt, cane sugar, potato
starch, modified corn starch, soy protein isolate, soy protein concentrate,
hydrolyzed corn and soy protein, sodium lactate, rice protein, sodium
diacetate, garlic powder, pea fibre, white vinegar, onion powder, seasoning,
onion extract and garlic extract. I wondered if the meat had been ground up and
mixed with all of that stuff as filler, but when I thawed it out I could see
that the roast beef if all beef and all the other stuff is just the scary
seasoning.
I gave Hazel my turkey voucher and she opened the freezer up to give me
a grain fed (what else would they feed a turkey?) hormone free turkey. There
was no weight marked on it but I’d guess it was about 3.5 kgs.
I skipped the bread section this time.
There was a bin each of broccoli and zucchini in front of the vegetable
lady. I didn’t know if we were supposed to choose one or the other, so I picked
the broccoli. She gave me two onions, two granny smith apples, two mandarin
oranges (the fruit was in much better shape than usual) and half of a 2.27 kg
bag of P.E.I. potatoes. I asked if I could take some zucchini and she said, “Of
course!” We wished each other a “Merry Christmas”; though it turns out they
will be open on Saturday the 24th, so I’ll probably see her again. I
guess two “Merry Christmases” don’t cancel each other out anyway.
As I was all bundled up for winter and didn’t want to have to get
bundled up again before going to a poetry reading on the following Tuesday
evening, after I left the food bank I headed for the No Frills at Jameson and
King to stock up on what provisions the food bank hadn’t provided. I parked my
bike in a snow bank and walked to the front of the supermarket only to see that
the windows were all covered up and the door was locked. There was a small sign
that said “service every fifteen minutes. No service between 12:00 and 13:00”.
I was wondering whether that meant the store was open every fifteen minutes but
not at lunchtime when a woman on the sidewalk asked, “Are you looking for the
No Frills?” I answered that I was, though that seemed pretty obvious. She
informed me that the store would be closed till March. I asked, if they were
renovating but she said that the roof had collapsed. She told me that there was
a shuttle bus every fifteen minutes to take shoppers up to the other No Frills
at Lansdowne and Dundas. That explained the sign but it’s strange that the sign
didn’t explain itself. There was no mention of a bus. As I was unlocking my
bike someone else came up to try the door. I was all ready to give him the same
information that the woman gave me, but another woman that was walking by let
him know. We all love to point stuff out to people, especially when we’ve just
learned it.
I rode along King to Dufferin and then up to Queen. It’s interesting how
the snowbanks under railroad bridges are just as high as they are on either
side of the bridge. I guess the ploughs just even everything out. But since
under the bridge tends to be the bottom of a hill, all the meltage from the
snowbanks accumulates there. I rode through some big puddles to get to Freshco.
Since I had two bags with me, one with a turkey in it and one that was
almost full of vegetables from the food bank, my shopping basket was pretty
much full as I shopped. I picked up some bananas and grapes. I think I might be
the only person that doesn’t taste grapes before buying them. I can usually
tell be touch if they are okay.
They had that delicious Cinnabun cinnamon bread, which I haven’t seen
there for a couple of months, so I took a loaf. They had a good deal on outside
round roasts, so I took the smallest one they had. I picked some old cheddar,
some yogourt and some superfries. I knew I wasn’t going to be able to fit
everything into the bags I had so I asked for a 99-cent Freshco recyclable bag.
The cashier had to go two aisles over though to get one for me.
That evening I thawed out the roast beef that I’d
gotten from the food bank, then chopped it up and put it into the bean chili
that I’d made the night before, because chili sans carne is blarney. I suddenly
remembered that Saturdays and Sundays are the nights that I have a beer with my
dinner and I’d forgotten to buy the two cans of Creemore. With half an hour
before the liquor store closed I headed out. Every corner at Dunn and Queen was
a large pond with ridged islands of slush. It’s the kind of weather that turns
us all into leapers.
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