Tibetan Cake

            On Saturday at around 9:45 I headed over to the food bank. As I approached on my bike, I saw hardly any people waiting outside, but on arrival it was clear from the row of two-wheeled shopping carts that a line-up, albeit a slightly shorter one than usual, had been established. Most of the food bank clients were sitting just inside the door of 1499 Queen Street West, where there is a ledge by the window. The established pattern seems to be that they sit there until they are told that they have to leave because of the fire codes and then they come back out.

            There was no one in the line-up at all when I walked up and stood behind a black backpack that was back of a Freshco shopping bag, which was after a shopping cart with a plaid lining. It was another chilly day, but with my leather spring and fall gloves and my motorcycle jacket zipped up I was able to read my book without discomfort.

            A couple of middle-aged Tibetan women were walking west with an opened white box containing a frosted mocha-coloured cake. They stopped as they passed to ask if I wanted a piece. I told them, “No thank you” for various reasons that I didn’t mention: I really don’t like eating on the street while standing up; devouring something that sweet would make me thirsty and I’d already had breakfast. I assume the confection was left over from an event the ladies had just attended and they didn’t want it to go to waste. Perhaps they’d come from the Karma Sonam temple just south of Queen on Maynard or more likely the Gajang Buddhist Centre, since everyone knows that it’s impossible to achieve satori without consuming chocolate frosting.

            There were a couple of regular food bank customers: a big woman with longish grey hair and the guy in hoody with the e-cigarette, standing and smoking further west than me. The big woman gratefully accepted a slice of the dessert for breakfast, and the nice ladies continued on their way.

            The other food bank clients must have gotten kicked out of the entryway, because they were all suddenly back out in proximity of their carts and they all seemed to start smoking all at the same time. At the old location it was easier to avoid the second hand smoke because one could step towards the back alley, cross the street or walk a bit north. In front of the PARC building though there are only two options: one can either walk east or west on Queen Street, depending which direction happens to be upwind at the time. Walking east though puts one in front of the main entrance to PARC, which has its own group of smokers tending to accumulate outside. Any further east than that would put one almost out of site of the food bank line-up.

            On this particular day it was frustratingly impossible to steer clear of the smoke. It made me wonder if it was even worth it. It might actually be healthier to get by with a little less nutrition than it would be to stand around breathing hydrogen cyanide, carbon monoxide, ammonia and the 250 other harmful toxins contained in second hand smoke, for two hours every week.

            A giant of an out of shape man in a plaid shirt came up to the line and commented that he had a “real nice headache” because he drank too much last night. Somebody bummed a cigarette off of him and he complained that nobody ever gave him smokes when he needed them. The guy who constantly sucks on his electronic cigarette jokingly handed it to the large guy and asked if he wanted a cigarette. The big guy shook his head but told him that it was good hat he was trying to quit and that he’d like to kick the habit himself. The man with the e-cigarette confessed that he has to start the day with a real one. He spoke of the way the taste of the smoke rolls over the tongue and down the throat, he declared with regret, “You just don’t get that with this!”

            A woman in a wheelchair came out of PARC and rolled a couple of meters west of the door to have a cigarette. On her feet she was only wearing a pair of white socks. The big guy shouted down the street to her from where he was leaning with both arms on a utility box, “Where’s your fuckin shoes?” She scowled and mumbled, “Mind your own business!” He mockingly muttered her response and then called out his question again.

            I moved further west again to avoid the smoke and then I heard someone behind me call my name. It was Helen Posno, whom I’ve known since the 80s when she also worked at OCA before it became OCAD and then finally OCADU. I also know her as a writer and a very quiet friend on Facebook but I hadn’t seen her in years, so I was surprised to see her getting along with a walker. We chatted briefly, and then she moved on, probably to have lunch at PARC.

            One both new and old member of the Parkdale food bank staff that morning was Joe, who has not been there for the last several months. I don’t know if he is back in as manager or simply another volunteer, but he seemed to be performing the same function as before, including smoking in front of the door. At about 10:30 he announced to the line-up that they’d get started in ten minutes because one of their computer people was late. He arrived with his bike fifteen minutes later, but they didn’t start letting people in until 11:00.

            When I finally got in I was given number 17 and dropped it in the coffee can on Angie’s dairy and meat counter. She had quite a bit of stuff to hand out: a half litre of milk, a tub of cottage cheese, two fruit bottom yogourt cups, two minigo yogourt squeeze tubes, a tube of frozen ground meat, a bag of five frozen hash browns, a bag of six eggs and a Ristoronte frozen capicollo ham, roasted mushroom and red pepper pizza.

            The friendly vegetable lady gave me potatoes, carrots, a turnip, two onions, a seedless cucumber, two bags of McCain’s frozen masala fries and two open paper bags of tortilla chips with the words “Chips: they complete you and your order”. I think they were from the Chipotle Mexican Grill.

            From the shelves I got a bag of carrot muffin mix; a box of Ritz crackers with an Olympics theme and a best before date of November 2016; a can of spiced diced tomatoes; two cans of chick peas; a carton of chicken broth; an 807 gram bag of Honey Puffed Delight cereal, a box of five fibre 1 key lime cheesecake bars; four packages of Bourbon Kreams and three packages of Nutella breadstick snacks.

            I was told to help myself to the bread, but all I took was a bag of hot cross buns.

            I have to admit that my bags were heavier on my way out of the food bank this time than they usually are. I still don’t know if it balances out the second-hand smoke though. Something has to be done about smoking both in front of the food bank and in front of PARC, like maybe a call to city hall. PARC has been there long enough and is busy enough that there should be a no smoking sign on the door.