The WideEyedSpouse and I faced each other across a bin full of iced up, dripping beet bundles. Hundreds of other beet bins were slushing around behind me in the warehouse. Always interesting to see what’s on the docket at the food bank.
We volunteer on Saturday mornings once a month or so. I don’t know why. Maybe because I’m grateful to have food no matter what. Maybe because I think everyone owes society something.
I’ve repacked macaroni from massive pallet size boxes almost 5 feet tall into small 8 ounce bags. I’ve shifted weird collections of donated dry goods – cereal, cookies, crackers, whatever not-quite-expired off-brand stuff stores donate – into family sized boxes.
This time, we were repacking beets. I like beets just fine, but let’s be real honest with each other. Beets are not first on anyone’s list.
While I folded leaves over and shoved bunches of beets into their plastic mesh sacks, I thought about the folks getting the beets. I know they will be healthier for fresh food. Beets are powerhouses.
Beets can be delicious. Beets also taste kind of like dirt and the root and the leaves require a certain intensity of preparation. With every sack I filled, and I alone filled dozens, maybe a couple of hundred I don’t know, it’s all lost in a red juice, icy water haze, I heard the recipient saying, sort of sadly, “oh boy, beets.”
Maybe some folks did say that. And I sure put positivity in every sack.
At the packing table with us, a bunch of kids from a local private high school were packing beets, too. They were quick, and my goodness did they talk. They sounded like a flock of birds, high and quick voices, ceaselessly chattering. It was charming. We learned about their friends, their rooms, their upcoming class trip. So much more and I bet they didn’t think we’d listen.
They carefully shook all the icy water from the beet leaves – onto each other. The kid who showed up late got the worst of it. Sometimes five bunches of beets got shaken on him. I was collateral damage a lot. Somehow the WideEyedSpouse never got it. He stood clean and tall and inviolate. I was specked with beet sauce.
Anyway, we packed beets and bounced and nodded along with the radio blaring from across the warehouse. Crunch, crunch – leaves shoved in half. Stuff, stuff – beets pushed into mesh bag. Bounce, bounce – carry empty beet bin over to the trash to dump out remaining ice and leaf waste. Bang! On the dumpster along with the beat to knock it clean.
The spouse and I sang along, hummed, smiled at each other. The radio was tuned to an oldies station, late 1980s and early 1990s rap. It was wonderful. “I left my wallet in El Segundo. I got to get it. I got, got to get it” we sang together.
In a lull between the beats (commercial break), I overhead our table mates talking about the music. “This would be waay better if we could pick the music.” I bet you could change the station I thought, but why would you?
“Man,” the tallish kid with red hair said, “this is such grandpa music.”
Oh. Sigh.
Well, maybe I shoved the next bunch of beets into their sack a little harder.
wideeyedfunk 