Three is the magic number
having a choice at the food bank; shopping only at Trader Joe's; spicy peanut sauce with smoky turkey meatballs
“The heart and brain and body….”
If you are, like me, a Gen X woman, then you might recognize this lyric.”You don’t have to guess.” It’s from one of my favorite songs from Schoolhouse Rock: Three is a Magic Number.
Three really is a magic number. It satisfies. Something happens? That’s a fact. It happens twice? It’s a coincidence. It happens three times? It’s a pattern.
That’s why I’m calling this mid-week newsletter for you Three is a Magic Number.
ONE.
The second week we lived in Seattle, I went to the food bank for us. On Vashon, we went nearly every week for 18 months.
Did you know that the price of groceries rose 40% since 2019?
Did anyone reading get a 40% raise in the last 5 years? We did not.
And the price of rental homes on the island shot up higher. In 2018, we paid $1800 a month for a 3-bedroom house with 1/2 acre of land. When we left, we had been paying $3000 a month for a 3-bedroom house with 1/2 acre of land.
Did Dan and I combined start making an extra $1200 a month to compensate for this? No, we did not.
For 6 months or so, I felt ashamed of the idea of going to the food bank. Then, I stopped that silliness. We needed help.
On Vashon, after COVID restrictions ended, the folks at the food bank set up the space like a little store. When your number was called, you walked around and picked what you wanted. There were limits on certain items but that felt like respecting our neighbors.
I expected the same when I went to the food bank in West Seattle. Nope.
Walking in, after standing in a long line, I was handed a box, slightly damp at the bottom, because I didn’t know to bring my own bag. As I shuffled along the line, I saw a volunteer at every station, asking me if I wanted tomatoes (yes) or diapers (no need). Once I reached in to grab a tub of yogurt, and a male volunteer told me, in no uncertain terms: “No more than one dairy item! You have two!” Embarrassed, I put one back.
Everyone there was kind. Everyone was performing an important service. But the difference between the city experience and the one on the island was abrupt. I haven’t gone back. We’ll make do some other way.
I thought of all this when I read the brilliant Kim Foster’s essay on this feeling in food banks: The Right to Choose. Do read it, if you have the chance. Kim writes like a house on fire. Have you read her book. The Meth Lunches? Essential.
Subscribe to her newsletter if you want straight talk and gorgeous writing about food outside of the food world. She’s mighty.
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