Food Banks

Gloomiest spring since I’ve lived in these parts. Farmers are three weeks behind in their growing season. The Goddess of the Cell Phone stands lonely in her walled garden: It’s been warm enough, but when the sun’s not out, nobody’s interested in picturesque outings.

Tomorrow is the solstice.

We’ll see if the weather recalibrates.

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Yesterday, I brought a bunch of community garden produce over to the local food bank.

I’m a big fan of food banks on account of I relied upon them to feed myself and my surly offspring back in those dark days when I woke up every morning thinking, Tomorrow is another day! So, maybe I’ll wait till tomorrow to kill myself.

The Ithaca food banks gave out canned tuna, lentils, stale cereal, mystery Pop Tarts, macaroni and various frozen foods that were 10 days behind their use-by dates.

Was I grateful for it?

No.

I seethed with resentment that the Ithaca food banks were not giving out raclette cheese, caviar, sushi and those wonderful tortes glazed with fresh fruit and candied flowers.

Anyway, these days I give away maybe a third of what I grow to the local food bank. Given the gloomy spring, right now that is Swiss chard. Which I personally happen to love but which maybe the local food clients see as the equivalent of stale cereal and mystery Pop Tarts. One never knows.

Other gardeners commit crops, too. Plus there are a few plots tended by Master Gardener Claude that are solely dedicated to the Food Bank. He actually grows asparagus and flowers in them. Luxury items!

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I was accompanied on my expedition to the local food bank by Deb, whom I’ve always thought of as the Church Lady and so, who shocked the shit out of me by telling me all about her X-husband, the pedophile—

TMI! TMI! I wanted to back off shrieking while making the sign of the cross!

Because it occurred to me that Deb thought this was a way to bond with me!

I’m almost always silent and unapproachable when I’m working in the garden. It’s a kind of meditation. I trance out when I’m weeding. There are a couple of people I will talk to, Claude, James, but their energy is more kinda slow-surging, and they only talk about topical subjects. Lama manure. Woodchucks. The proper way to use a Rototiller.

Deb is bright, giddy, brittle and always wants to talk about her experiences at the homeless shelter or as some sort of officiary at the St. James Episcopal Church.

I would definitely talk to her at a party.

But I don’t want to talk to her in the garden.

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The line was pretty long at the food bank. Lots of families. They say the 2008 recession is over, but honestly? I don’t know.

I chose a table as far away from Deb’s as I could manage and did the bureaucratic stuff as efficiently and anonymously as I could. We’re supposed to check ID, write names down, check their baskets when they’re done foraging to make sure they haven’t snagged one more Mystery Pop Tart than they’re entitled to.

I try very hard never to make eye contact.

I don’t want to recognize these people should I happen to encounter them around town when they’re trying to pass as Real Human Boys and Girls.

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Else?

Max likes the design of the website, so it’s all fires ahead with the actual build.

Since I’m off the grid this Saturday through Wednesday next, I probably won’t finish designing till the weekend after this.

Peony season is officially over.

And I need something to read.