by Hilary Jocelyn
The plates looked at me proudly as I carried them to the table. The sour cream grinned upwards, and the guacamole nestled into the tortilla chips that decorated the main event-. On the menu today was a delicious Mexican dish with a name that was something like ‘Pollo Pozole, ” and although I had never heard of it, let alone tasted it, it smelled absolutely divine. There were sounds of ooohs and ahhhs as I laid the plates in front of the diners, trying carefully not to disgrace myself as a server, and spill the lot on someone’s shoulder or into their lap ( as yours truly has indeed done before in her dim and distant and probably best forgotten past.)
Once the appreciative noises had been vocalised, there were a few moments of more or less silence as everyone enthusiastically tucked into their meal. Some inhaled it, and some ate more delicately, savouring every mouthful. Then, the joyful hubbub of conversation resumed, with laughter and fun protruding from every table. I hovered around, asking if anyone wanted a glass of water or needed anything, and then I went off to serve the other tables of waiting and hungry people. Once the sixty or more people in the room had been served, I sat down to chat, to eat some food, and drink a cup of tea, jumping up to serve second, and sometimes third helpings, or to hand a laden plate to a newcomer who had just come through the door.
What fancy restaurant offers second and third helpings; you ask? And what waitress sits down at the tables to chat with their customers? Well, let me clarify what was going on, my friends.
This was not a restaurant, and I was not a waitress.
I was, in fact, serving at the Parkdale Food Centre in Ottawa, where twice a week they offer a community meal to anyone who is hungry and who wants to come and share. Here, people are not called clients, or customers, or service users. No, we are instead, all called Neighbours. Neighbours are equal, right? Not flavoured with the “haves” and the “have nots”. And no need for anyone to feel the creep of encompassing shame for not being able to afford to buy decent food.
During my time here, I too become part of this unique community, built around the premise that we all deserve to eat nutritious and yummy food. Not hotdogs or hand outs, but delicious, lovingly prepared sustenance. Afterall, food is a universal human right, and surely not a charitable commodity. So ,all are welcomed here, with a friendly smile and some kind warm words.
As I look around this happy room, I see crowds of people who live in the area, staff who work at the centre, volunteers, passers by. And many who are hungry for company, as well as food. There are even a few well-behaved dogs sitting calmly, smirking under the table, while their human companions eat what might be the only good meal they will set their eyes on for the rest of the week.
As part of the training, I was given to work here, we played a game, using scenarios, so we would understand the financial challenges that hinder many from buying the food they need. I was given a scenario of a single parent with two children who worked full time at a minimum wage job. Once she had paid her rent, her bills, her childcare expenses, transportation, clothing and maybe a phone, there was almost no money left to buy food. No guacamole for her! Or snacks for the kids. Or even the basic necessities.
As I glance around, I see a man sitting alone with his lunch in the corner. He has a sad look in his eye and was wearing an overlarge suit, with a crisp sparkling shirt and a well knotted tie. I go to chat with him, and he tells me tearfully that he is about to attend the funeral of his long-time girlfriend who had recently died of an overdose. He had borrowed the suit from a friend. I then observe a group of women who are animatedly chatting together in Mandarin Chinese, skillfully picking up their food with the chop sticks that are readily on hand in this inclusive place. I hear other languages flying around in the lunchtime air, and I smile at the sight of people chatting together, sharing their stories and a few laughs. It is a delight to be part of this lunchtime ritual, and it adds depth and richness to my own rural existence.
There is another component to this magical place, a few streets over. It is called the “Mino’Weesini Grocery Program” after an Algonquin term meaning ‘good eats’, which reflects the ‘transformative power of sharing good food.’ Helping out here is another very satisfying pleasure, as people come in, and just like in a regular store, get to chose what they would like to eat. No handouts here. People are welcomed ,encouraged and supported. Using a grocery cart, they walk around the well stocked shelves, and decide what kind of food they, and their families, really want and need. They are given a certain number of points when they come in- depending on their family size – and are able to fill their cart until their points are all used up. And guess where most people head to? Not the pasta or the cans of tuna and tomato soup. No. Once things like milk and eggs and meat etc have been spoken for, it’s the sight of the plentiful fresh produce sitting piled high, that draws them, magnet like to the shelves.
Cauliflower – yes please ! Cabbage and tomatoes- yum yum!
Apples and bananas, yippee!
Being here feels like an honour, and satisfaction sits on my face, as I help people chose what they want, add it to their cart, and pack it into bags at the end of their shop. Then, I watch the Neighbours as they lug their wares off happily into the afternoon air, anticipating being able to finally cook and eat some good food that evening. We do everything we can to disable the pervasive sense of stigma that many do feel by having to come to this place.
I met a man who told me with averted eyes, and a shame laden muted voice, that this was his first visit to the grocery program. He said that he ran his own moving operation, a one man and his truck kind of deal. But with the rising cost of gas, of sky jumping rents, and the fact that almost no- one moves in the winter months, he was forced to come so he could refill his empty cupboard. Systemic injustice that leads to so many heartbreaking stories, and collective tummy rumblings.
I have neighbours out here in the woods, who have just started their own natural soapmaking business. It is called “ Alcove Artisans,” and their creations smell delicious. They recently gave me a dozen or so bags of extra soap that they had made, and asked me to take it with me on my next visit to the grocery program. I have to tell you, that when a woman saw it there on the shelf, her eyes lit up as she placed a bag in her cart. And mine, for sure, moistened slightly, as I witnessed her incredulous joy at the option of washing her hands with homemade, natural soap.
The things we take for granted.
So as the world struggles with injustice, climate emergency, hunger, and violent unceasing wars, it is good to create and seek out the safe places in our community, either close to home here in the Hills, or a bit further afield, that offer respect, inclusivity and love.
Bon appetit everyone.
Wandering Wakefield 