The Big Food Lie

Little Milton--"Grits Ain't Groceries" (mp3)

The book currently at the top of my "Personal Unwritten Bestsellers" list is called The Big Food Lie.

Here's the premise: the media regularly links obsesity and poverty, claiming that to eat well is too expensive for the poor, but I believe that the complete opposite is true. I believe that anyone can eat a very healthy, hearty, varied diet while being very frugal.

Case in point: buy a chicken. Not an uncooked chicken, but one of the ubiquitous rotisserie chickens that are available in most every grocery store in America. These, of course, vary in price and quality. At an exclusive grocery store, they are likely to cost as much as $7.99 for one; in the Wal-Mart or the Costco, you can get one for $4.99 (the Costco version has the added benefit of not being pumped full of the various chemical crap that taints its Wal-Mart counterpart).

Okay, so 5 bucks for the Costco one I bought last night. It must have weighed about 6 pounds, at least 5 pounds. I pulled all of the white meat off of it and put it on a platter, an ample display of copious breast meat, along with two wings, two thighs, two legs. I made a bowl of mashed potatoes from two large russets, and steamed some green beans, and heated some leftover bread from the freezer.

All four of us ate our fill, and when we were finished, there was still about a pound of white meat, plus all of the dark meat. Meal #1 complete.

Anytime I buy or cook a chicken, I immediately strip the meat, save all of the bones, toss them in a pot with an onion, a carrot, a couple of stalks of celery, two garlic cloves, a teaspoon of peppercorns and enough water to cover all of it. After I bring that to a boil, I let it simmer for about an hour and, unless I forget it and it really boils down, I usually end up with about 3 quarts of incredible chicken stock.

Last night, while I was making that, I was also making white chicken chili. From a mix. You know those overpriced soup mixes; you see them all over the place. Add a packet of spices to some dried beans and you can charge several dollars for them instead of a buck. This one was $2.99 for some white cannelini beans and an "all-natural" spice packet. But even for that price, I was making supper for my daughter's sleepover tonight by using those beans, that spice packet, 7 cups of water, and the white meat from my purchased chicken. When it was all done 90 minutes, I had Meal #2 complete. All it would need would be some tortilla chips and cheese and sour cream and whatever else was around (tomatoes, chopped onions, etc.) to make the white chili a complete meal.

In addition to the chili that I left in the pot for my daughter and her friend, I also froze two quarts of the chili. That's a couple more meals frozen, ready, and waiting.

There are a lot of uses for chicken stock and you may want to freeze some for another use, but when mine was finished, I strained it, added the dark meat from my purchased chicken, chopped up the celery and carrots that had gone into the making of stock, added about 1/2 cup of dried pasta from my cupboard, let all of that simmer for awhile, seasoned it, and then I had two quarts of homemade chicken noodle soup (and without all of the crazy amounts of sodium that are in the canned versions). That's Meal #3 and more.

I also froze a quart of the chicken stock. It will come in handy when I'm making shrimp and oyster dressing at Christmas.

How much did I spend in total? I don't really know, since I have a pretty well-stocked house, but in addition to that $4.99 chicken and that $2.99 chili kit, I didn't use much besides a couple of potatoes, part of a bag of carrots, part of a bag of celery, an onion, a little garlic, and a bunch of stuff (like cheese and chips) that most people always have around their houses. So, what, maybe 20 bucks? How does that compare with taking your family of four to even the cheapest restaurant in the country?

I served three meals for sure, with the potential for perhaps four more waiting in my refrigerator and freezer. Nothing was time consuming. Nothing was complicated. Nothing called for exotic ingredients or special skills.

And, of course, anyone could do any of this perhaps even more cheaply and naturally by doing all of the steps themselves, roasting their own chicken, etc. But I wanted to combine ease with economy to make my point.

There are a myriad of other foods, other ingredients, that would allow for this kind of meal creation and dollar stretching--a bag of black beans, a jar of pasta sauce, a head of cabbage, a carton of eggs. To pretend that eating well is somehow a privilege of the wealthy is the big food lie. I think it's a lie that we, as a society, are content with because it allows us to pretend that nothing can be done about obesity or malnutrition, that our poor are doomed to live on processed, salty starches, even though tackling obesity and malnutrition would be stepping stones to shoring up education and then reaping all of the benefits that would result from that. That's the biggest tragedy we accept.

To Have And To Have Not

Billy Bragg--"To Have and To Have Not" (mp3)

Story #1: A knock at my door, late at night. I walk to the door and look out, see a black man at my door. Even as I reach it, he is already retreating, until, by the time I open the door, he is a good 30-40 feet from my front door. Then begins the whole "Excuse me, sir" rigamarole which no one believes, including both of us, about how and why he needs money. I go inside and close the door because it hasn't been that long since two black men broke into my home and only ran out because I caught them by surprise. They shouldn't have been scared. I had nothing. And the man at my door suffers for that incident. But, I do have money, and so, behind closed doors I try to figure out how to give it to him. I open the door. By then, he has given up on me; he is moving up the street. "Yessir," he says, "I'm here." "I'm going to put it on the front porch," I say, which I do. And then I close the front door and lock it. I'm pretty sure I hear him say, "Thank you." But I don't open the door again and he doesn't try to engage us again. He takes the money and goes.


Story #2: Broad daylight. Several days later. There is a knock on my door. When I approach the door and look out, there is a black man again who sees me and begins backing away from the door. Again, he wants money. This time, I take my little chihuahua outside with me. The dog barks incessantly, and I can barely hear what the man is saying. So I put the dog inside. The man asks me how my Thanksgiving was. I ask him what I can do for him. Again, it is about money. I search my pockets, but I have none. I suggest a neighbor who might give him some. He heads in that direction. After I close the door and go back inside, I confer with my daughters and we realize that one of them has some money. I decide that I will go track him down and give it to him. She hands me the money and off I go in her car. When I find him deeper in the neighborhood, he is in conversation with two of my very conservative neighbors, a husband and wife who don't even want our out-of-neighborhood trick or treaters coming in. I stop the car next to him in the street, hand him the money, shake his hand, and drive on. I know there will be repercussions for this.

**********

I have spoken before on these pages about the poor and money. This time, I am even more conflicted on the subject, having just come from an exhibit in a museum in Cleveland about the hobos during the Great Depression and their various universal symbols that they would leave for each other. I would hope that, had I lived then, I would have been one of those homes that had a secret marking on it indicating to passers through that our home was a place where someone could stop and ask for a meal and get one.

But times are different. And "hobos" are of a different color. This time, I got a phone call from my neighbor who saw me drive up and give the man the money, telling me that he had some story about a car being out of gas and how they offered to give him gas, but he also asked for a cold drink, and when they came back with the drink and the gas, he was gone. So they drove down to where he said his car was and the car was gone. All of this related on my phone machine very smugly, to let me know that a) he was lying and b) I was a fool.

Now, I don't argue the second point. I can be incredibly naive and most certainly was in this case, but then, I never asked him why he needed the money. I accepted the fact that he didn't have any and that he wanted some. I guess I don't remember the Bible verse which says, "Before thou dispenseth thy money to the poor, thou shouldst ascertain the purpose of that money."

If I wanted money to buy beer, I reckon that most of you would give it to me and probably not even ask for it back.

There are currently about 14.8 million Americans who are "officially" unemployed, with reasons to believe that the true number is actually much higher. (For example, if you haven't worked for years, you aren't being counted at all).

That means that 1 in every 20 adults that each of us encounters does not have a job. Given how many of those people also represents families, the number of people who do not enjoy the benefits of a wage or salary is substantially higher. And each of those persons has needs (or wants) large and small that a church or charity can't possibly meet.

Yeah, I know I'm a sucker, and, at this point, often a pretty willing one. If I've got a few bucks in my pocket with no designated purpose, I often don't mind giving it away. And, I know that you may not want me as your neighbor, since I'll probably try to find a way to help out the person comes knocking, and then you'll want to accuse me enabling them. You think I should have turned him away. So be it. You were probably one of my neighbors who didn't want the trick or treaters in here either because you thought they were casing our houses. But where do you think he was going to go after my house? And what do you think your call to the police was going to accomplish? There have been others before this man. There will be others to follow, regardless of what you or I do.

It was Michael Stipe who once sang, "What we want and what we need has been confused." I think he's right, and it's a pointed commentary on consumerism and greed. But it touches all levels of our society, even those who have little or nothing. I don't see any of us becoming discerning, daily judges able to sort out the confusion between the two. Especially now.

Stuck in a Parable

Wee Who See the Deep - Black Crowes (mp3)
The Sun is Shining Down - JJ Grey + Mofro (mp3)
[NOTE: JJ Grey + Mofro will perform for FREE at Nightfall in Chattanooga on Friday, July 3. A pox on your houses if you can make it but choose to miss out!]


On Sunday afternoon, as my wife and youngest hit Napville, I made a run to Starbucks to write for a little while and then to pick up a few needed groceries for the evening's affairs. I scootered myself down one of Chattanooga's mini-autobahns known as "South Terrace." Three-quarters of the way down, I hit a red light but continued to live in my distant musical world, singing along with whatever glorious song played on my iPod. (Yes, I wear my iPod when riding my scooter, which seems to some people a death-wish.)

Due to the loud earbuds, I failed to notice that this older fat guy in a holey T-shirt had walked riiiight up to me on my scooter and was saying something to me not eight inches from my helmeted noggin. He was covered in sweat. Drenched in it, in fact. Sunday was a hot, muggy day (as opposed to those standard summer days in Chattanooga, when it's a breezy and mild 74...).

He was sitting at this stop light selling Sunday newspapers. In the Employment Hall of Shame, this job is right there next to standing on the side of the road dressed up in Statue of Liberty and Uncle Sam costumes to promote tax filing services or holding up Little Caesar's signs to promote their $5 pizzas. I'm pretty sure crack whores look down on these people.

Trying not to react too quickly in panic, I paused my music and asked him to repeat himself.

"Are you coming back this way?" he asked.

"No sir," I said, mostly telling the truth. "Why?"

The light turned green.

"It's so hot out here, and I was hoping you might be --"

I waved him off and said I was sorry and began to ride down the road. " -- willing to bring me back something to..." he said as I was puttering away. He probably wanted something to drink.

I'm not a very generous or selfless person, but my "good" moments tend to sprout in small and unplanned ways. This is exactly the kind of small and unplanned moment that tends to activate my philanthropic heart. Give homeless people a ride. Throw some extra change into that "fund" at a sandwich shop. Take a beggar into some place and buy a drink or a sandwich. Help someone push their broken-down car off the road then look under the hood and shake my head, as if there was any chance in hell I'd have the slightest clue what was wrong (I'd have better chances of scattering chicken bones on a table to diagnose engine trouble).

I don't do it every chance I get, mind you. But when I get that "vibe" that I "really should," then I heed my vibe.

Yet, for entirely unacceptable reasons -- green light, "not feeling it" -- I scooted away from his request and went along my merry way. When I got caught by the next red light, I began to wonder if I'd just had a Biblical Moment, a Divine SAT test in which I failed. ("When I was thirsty you gave me drink" yada yada.) It stayed on my shoulders as I sat down with my fancy coffee, knowing I'd turned away the angel at my door, "the least of these."

Oh well. Too late to do anything, right? So I finish my coffee and wrap up my writing, and I go get the necessary groceries at Wally World.

I get home only to discover that the checkout lady had managed to require three separate plastic bags for what amounted to eight paltry frikkin' items. I'd only stuffed two bags into my scooter compartment. I'd left one behind.

Yup. I was gonna have to get back on my scooter and drive riiiiight past that very same place where I'd told the man 90 minutes earlier that I wouldn't be going by there again. So I threw two bottles of water into my scooter bag and headed back for Wally World. I would stop off and hand these bottles to the man on my way, thus clearing my conscience and culpability.

But he was gone. This old fat sweaty hulk of a thirsty man and his stack of unsold Sunday papers were no longer there.

Suck Creek Discomfort

My Baby Loves Malt Liquor - Roger Alan Wade (mp3)
Nighttrain - Public Enemy (mp3)

An acquaintance of ours celebrated her 30th birthday last weekend by renting out a cabin on the outskirts of Chattanooga. The place is called -- with no sense of irony -- The Pot House. In many ways, it was the antithesis of my own party a week prior. My party was about inviting everything but the kitchen sink to join me, cram human bodies into small spaces and gab away like some wrinkling gray attempt at recreating a frat party. Her party was about getting away from the crowds, renting the cabin for a night, and inviting 40 or so people to stop by and stay as long as they liked from morning to late at night.

Getting to this cabin required driving down four long miles of curvy, semi-paved road off of Suck Creek. If you ever wondered why they named it Suck Creek, you only needed to drive this stretch of road. I'm pretty sure the only other option was to name it Meth Creek. And "Suck" just had a better ring to it.

What I'm about to observe will say much about my own issues of race and class. It's not particularly pretty, so there's a level of discomfort in even writing this. Some would say, "That's 'cuz you're supposed to keep these thoughts to yourself." And maybe they're right. But the problem with where we are as a culture right now, it seems to me, is that we're all so afraid of sounding ignorant or racist or bigoted that we don't ever even try to express ourselves. We're so afraid of being excoriated that we never get the opportunity to exchange ideas and perspectives in a truly deep and meaningful way. And without that exchange, how are our beliefs going to change?

We drove down this pothole-filled, winding road at 15 mph. On one bend, the houses were all overrun with trash in all shapes and sizes, from cars on cinder blocks to broken lawn chairs to piles of traditional garbage. A few hundred yards later, we'd drive past fairly nice houses, some over 2000 square feet and well-tended. Then a few more dumps. Then a few more nice ones. Some in-between.

"I'm so nervous," I told my wife. "I don't like this at all."

I live on the campus of a school that is a stone's throw from some fairly poor housing areas. One of the city's two most crime-ridden districts is basically this school's neighbor. Prostitutes and dealers can be found walking down several of the streets within miles of our house almost any night of the week. We pass them regularly, and I rarely think much of it. But... most of the people who are involved in these shady activities around the school are black. Maybe a few whites and a few more Latinos in the mix, but primarily black. They don't make me nervous, and I don't fear for my life.

But you take me out into White Trash Honkeyville, and I start getting agitated and frightened.

"Why?" she asked. "It's not like some drug-addled Bubba in a Jason hockey mask was going to bound out of a house and kill our children in a meth-crazed frenzy." -- I'm paraphrasing and exaggerating her words, but that was the general gist -- "so why are you nervous?"

"Because these people could be my relatives," I said.

I can't deny the implications of what I said at that moment. My words implied I get more upset about poverty and dilapidation when it affects whites, that it's all fine and good when minorities are plagued by problems like this, but I see white folks suffer, and all of a sudden I'm bothered.

After I'd had some time to consider the weight and implications of my claim, I realized there was another factor involved that explained my discomfort that had nothing to do with race. I am a downtown Chattanoogan and have been for more than a decade. Inner-city issues are something I see every day. I served on the board of a local homeless ministry here, so I saw it close up at times. The white poverty I saw on the fringes is something I haven't seen much in the last 13 years. I saw it in Warner Robins, but not since.

My Suck Creek Discomfort was more about me being a stranger in a strange land. I can't deny race playing a possible factor; I've had several handfuls of relatives who've dabbled in meth and/or lived in plenty of rundown trailer parks. But they're relatives I don't see much, and it's a lifestyle I neither see nor easily comprehend. Meanwhile, if you want to try and comprehend the life of the inner city, you can watch The Wire or Boys N Da Hood or any of dozens of movies, TV shows, or any of thousands of songs. The poor black life is constantly chronicled. Stereotyped, perhaps, but chronicled nonetheless. The white trash life isn't, and nobody much wants it to be. (And no, kiddies, Roseanne doesn't count.)

Maybe part of the new racial paradigm will require that we acknowledge the extent of the problem of white poverty, that we recognize drugs and gangs and ramshackle existences aren't just a black thing. Maybe that part of America is ignored because, for most of us, it's more frightening when it's all that much closer to home.

The Roger Alan Wade song is from All Likkered Up. Public Enemy's is from Apocalypse 91: The Enemy Strikes Black. Both can be found on iTunes or Amazon.com's mp3 site.