The Dumpster Behind Central Market
The next day, I went to the dumpsters behind Central Market, more upscale than Wheatsville, more foodie than hippy. Central Market’s wasted food was well organized, stacked four feet high into squares you could walk around to access. It was easy to get a quick look at everything they had, which was an incredible amount in every category: produce, meat, dairy, prepared food… The temps had stayed low and it looked like it was in great condition. Whole smoked turkeys, spiral cut hams, cured salami, all shrink wrapped in thick plastic. I was tempted, but kept to my dumpster diving no-meat policy. Cheese was another matter. There were boxes of five pound blocks of Ememnthaler, Cheddar, Monterey Jack. Half gallon containers of whipping cream… if that went bad it would be obvious. Boxes of butter. I must have taken 20 pounds of butter. I don't know what ingredients the guerilla chefs downtown needed, there was no grocery list. They just took what came in, changed it into hot food, and sent it out, but no chef ever has too much butter. I was loading something into the back of my van when a prius pulled up alongside me and a woman wearing a Central Market fleece sweater rolled her window down. She was holding her phone.
“Hi.” I said.
“I know you think there are hungry people and you think that you are helping them but all of this food is bad. All of it.”
I looked at her for a moment and I considered presenting some kind of argument, maybe referring to the obvious edible state of some of the food here. Or referring to the level of need that existed in the city at this moment, that her efforts would be better spent actually helping people if she wanted to be of service to mankind instead of stopping someone else from doing it, but she seemed to have more prepared to say to me than I had to her. She seemed like a manager sent to check on things or help prepare the store for prolonged closure.
“Thank you.” I said, and closed the back of my van.
The Indian restaurant downtown where, the night before, there had been a bustling guerilla kitchen, was empty and dark. I asked a passerby if they knew where it went, fully expecting them to look at me like I was crazy, but they directed me around the block. I broke the taillight on my van double parking on 4th street, where I shuttled the groceries into the lobby of some kind of small business. Food was being stacked on a sofa and shuttled back by another sort of volunteer. Other visitors brought in produce and prepped meals they had purchased at one of the few open stores. A woman in a long black down coat set down a dozen pristine salads in clear plastic boxes that looked like they exited Whole Foods through the front door. Was I taking this more or less seriously than other people? The five pound blocks of cheese I was carrying by the armload looked like I was delivering materials to a masonry jobsite. The last one wasn't really cheese, but something like Velveeta and of dubious nutritional value, so I left it in my van. One month later, no mold of any kind has grown on it. I am down to the last pound or two, I like to put it in omelets or melt it on things.
This essay series is part of a project to document Texan’s experiences during the 2021 freeze. Do you have a story to share about the 2021 Texas freeze? Share it with my publication, Freeze Stories, on Medium. If its not filled with filth, I’ll publish it. Ok, I’ll publish it even if its filled with filth.