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Ed Bedford goes grocery shopping, finds it's a SNAP
When the Tin Fork meets the tin can
You don't know how much you'll miss good bread until you can't get it.
At some point, I let it slip that I’d had oatmeal for lunch. My friend Jacqui flicked a look at me that asked, “Are you really in that much trouble?”
Fact is, yes: things have been, how shall I say it? A bit tight. I never knew I could pare life down to such belly-bloating cheapos. But recently, things like rice, black beans, pinto beans that you have soak for days, and $1.99 pasta have done far more than round out a corner of my plate.
“Shall I tell you something?” asks Jacqui, lowering her voice to a confidential level. (OK. Not her real name. She doesn’t want her friends to know about this). “I get a wee bit of help, or I’d be eating oatmeal for lunch like you.”
I knew she had been through the mill a bit herself. For both of us, lamb chops or even 85 percent ground beef have given way to cans of beets or beans. Landlord comes first! But I hadn’t seen her for a while. It’s like the frog in the slowly warming water. You don’t notice. It takes a Jacqui to wake you up to the fact that, like, you’re going d-o-w-n, dude. Gotta do something. I hadn’t even noticed how, in the supermarket, my eye has self-trained to go straight for the price. I don’t care about favorite brand, organic, exotic, sweet indulgences, pretty packaging, whether the sugar is natural or made in a lab. If the generic’s 99 cents cheaper, it’s it and that’s that. You learn to recognize fellow penny-counters. In the pasta and rice aisle, most often. We make busy, avoid eye contact.
It’s not just Jacqui. I also confessed to Tim about my circumstances. Tim, up in Spring Valley. Turns out he has thirty bucks between him and the gaping maw of hunger. And Tim is a trained chef. Whereas the rest of us eat to live, this man lives to eat. Or did. “What am I eating tonight?” he says on the phone. “A, uh, can of sweet corn. That’s it. Not getting a brass razoo until next Thursday at least. Rice, plus a pack of Ka Me noodles. And I found two cans of artichoke hearts.”
Tomorrow, he says, it’ll be white rice with cream of mushroom soup mixed in. “Then I’m thinking of my can of tuna with mac and cheese. Or I have sardines that I’ll put with mayo. So that’s four days I got taken care of. You?”
Honestly, the choice isn’t great. I’ve got a week-old half carcass of $8.99 roasted chicken and some soaked black beans. That’s it. If I buy more with my regular card, I go OD. I’m contemplating this is when I get an excited call from my friend Jacqui. “I just talked to the people at Snap. They’re sure you’d qualify. You’d be able to get maybe $200 worth of food every month! It’s just for food. No booze. Nothing else. But that little nudge makes all the difference.”
“But I could never pay them back.”
“You wouldn’t have to. It’s a federal program mixed in with San Diego County, for people living below the poverty line.”
Ulp. This is a heavy thought to digest. Is that me? Joining the ranks of the poor? “Look, it’s not a lot,” says Jacqui, “but it makes such a difference. Trust me. I was coming out in nervous rashes until I got into this. Now I can actually enjoy going shopping at the market. Don’t be proud, Edward. Just do it.”
I think of all the little things I’ve dropped off the list whenever I go shopping: olives, ice cream, canned peaches, Dijon mustard, mayonnaise, strawberries, salad things like apples, nuts, balsamic vinegar, raisins, kiwi fruit, avocados. I have had to be strict with myself or face those OD flashes on my bank website, and knowing that they’re gonna wallop me with $36 fees for each one. Do NOT want to get caught in that overdraft vortex.
Moral dilemma: it is, after all’s said and done, other people’s money. This is charity. But, long story short, three weeks later I have called 211. This gets me to CalFresh, aka SNAP, the federally-funded Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program. I explain that my freelance income has dropped since the beginning of the year, and wonder if I’d qualify for assistance till I get my act back together. They are very good the way they deal with my circumstance. They say they’ll send forms to fill to see if I’m making little enough to qualify for their program.
“Don’t feel bad,” says Jacqui. “They’re tiding you over till you can disqualify yourself.” She’s here with me at Vons to hold my hand, because I have just got my Golden State Advantage card. It arrived today through the mail. It’s both exciting and terrifying. The exciting thing is the olives. Actually being able to buy some olives ($2.29) after all this time. And good bread. Dave’s Killer Bread (organic and full of grains), $6.99. Mayonnaise, $7. “Everything” crackers, $4.99. Soy sauce, $2.49. Strawberry preserves, $4.49. Salt-free peanuts for the salad, $3.99. I’ve qualified to spend about $200 on food over a month and I feel like the richest man on earth.
“Now,” says Jacqui, “checkout’s the last challenge. If you don’t want the checkout ladies to know you’re not spending your own money, that you’re using Snap, take this all to the self-serve. I mean, SNAP don’t mind. The only thing is anything that’s not food. You pay for it with your regular card. Checker has to deal with that. Plus, like SNAP’s got its own specials this week. Ten bucks off produce. That’s a good deal! But you’d have to talk with the checker. It’s up to you.”
Fruit never looked — or tasted — so good.
Sigh. Anonymity, farewell! Long and short is, in my nervousness I try to sneak through using autopay, because all I’m getting is food. Except I screw the autopay up anyway. The machine calls Dan the supervisor over. You feel like all eyes are on you. And, dammit, he notices I’m using SNAP. But somehow he doesn’t freak out. We complete the operation and I walk away a free man. I suddenly feel liberated as I walk out the doors. Tonight, I’m carrying two heavy bags back. There’s a week’s meals in them. Sixty-even bucks. It’s a small nudge, but man I’m so grateful. It makes all the difference in the world.
The Agency: CalFresh/SNAP. Call 211, or County of San Diego CalFresh, (866) 262-9881. Or hunger hotline, (866) 348-6479
Hours: 7 am-5 pm Monday to Friday
Here's something you might be interested in.
Ed Bedford goes grocery shopping, finds it's a SNAP
When the Tin Fork meets the tin can
Ed Bedford goes grocery shopping, finds it's a SNAP
When the Tin Fork meets the tin can
You don't know how much you'll miss good bread until you can't get it.
At some point, I let it slip that I’d had oatmeal for lunch. My friend Jacqui flicked a look at me that asked, “Are you really in that much trouble?”
Fact is, yes: things have been, how shall I say it? A bit tight. I never knew I could pare life down to such belly-bloating cheapos. But recently, things like rice, black beans, pinto beans that you have soak for days, and $1.99 pasta have done far more than round out a corner of my plate.
“Shall I tell you something?” asks Jacqui, lowering her voice to a confidential level. (OK. Not her real name. She doesn’t want her friends to know about this). “I get a wee bit of help, or I’d be eating oatmeal for lunch like you.”
I knew she had been through the mill a bit herself. For both of us, lamb chops or even 85 percent ground beef have given way to cans of beets or beans. Landlord comes first! But I hadn’t seen her for a while. It’s like the frog in the slowly warming water. You don’t notice. It takes a Jacqui to wake you up to the fact that, like, you’re going d-o-w-n, dude. Gotta do something. I hadn’t even noticed how, in the supermarket, my eye has self-trained to go straight for the price. I don’t care about favorite brand, organic, exotic, sweet indulgences, pretty packaging, whether the sugar is natural or made in a lab. If the generic’s 99 cents cheaper, it’s it and that’s that. You learn to recognize fellow penny-counters. In the pasta and rice aisle, most often. We make busy, avoid eye contact.
It’s not just Jacqui. I also confessed to Tim about my circumstances. Tim, up in Spring Valley. Turns out he has thirty bucks between him and the gaping maw of hunger. And Tim is a trained chef. Whereas the rest of us eat to live, this man lives to eat. Or did. “What am I eating tonight?” he says on the phone. “A, uh, can of sweet corn. That’s it. Not getting a brass razoo until next Thursday at least. Rice, plus a pack of Ka Me noodles. And I found two cans of artichoke hearts.”
Tomorrow, he says, it’ll be white rice with cream of mushroom soup mixed in. “Then I’m thinking of my can of tuna with mac and cheese. Or I have sardines that I’ll put with mayo. So that’s four days I got taken care of. You?”
Honestly, the choice isn’t great. I’ve got a week-old half carcass of $8.99 roasted chicken and some soaked black beans. That’s it. If I buy more with my regular card, I go OD. I’m contemplating this is when I get an excited call from my friend Jacqui. “I just talked to the people at Snap. They’re sure you’d qualify. You’d be able to get maybe $200 worth of food every month! It’s just for food. No booze. Nothing else. But that little nudge makes all the difference.”
“But I could never pay them back.”
“You wouldn’t have to. It’s a federal program mixed in with San Diego County, for people living below the poverty line.”
Ulp. This is a heavy thought to digest. Is that me? Joining the ranks of the poor? “Look, it’s not a lot,” says Jacqui, “but it makes such a difference. Trust me. I was coming out in nervous rashes until I got into this. Now I can actually enjoy going shopping at the market. Don’t be proud, Edward. Just do it.”
I think of all the little things I’ve dropped off the list whenever I go shopping: olives, ice cream, canned peaches, Dijon mustard, mayonnaise, strawberries, salad things like apples, nuts, balsamic vinegar, raisins, kiwi fruit, avocados. I have had to be strict with myself or face those OD flashes on my bank website, and knowing that they’re gonna wallop me with $36 fees for each one. Do NOT want to get caught in that overdraft vortex.
Moral dilemma: it is, after all’s said and done, other people’s money. This is charity. But, long story short, three weeks later I have called 211. This gets me to CalFresh, aka SNAP, the federally-funded Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program. I explain that my freelance income has dropped since the beginning of the year, and wonder if I’d qualify for assistance till I get my act back together. They are very good the way they deal with my circumstance. They say they’ll send forms to fill to see if I’m making little enough to qualify for their program.
“Don’t feel bad,” says Jacqui. “They’re tiding you over till you can disqualify yourself.” She’s here with me at Vons to hold my hand, because I have just got my Golden State Advantage card. It arrived today through the mail. It’s both exciting and terrifying. The exciting thing is the olives. Actually being able to buy some olives ($2.29) after all this time. And good bread. Dave’s Killer Bread (organic and full of grains), $6.99. Mayonnaise, $7. “Everything” crackers, $4.99. Soy sauce, $2.49. Strawberry preserves, $4.49. Salt-free peanuts for the salad, $3.99. I’ve qualified to spend about $200 on food over a month and I feel like the richest man on earth.
“Now,” says Jacqui, “checkout’s the last challenge. If you don’t want the checkout ladies to know you’re not spending your own money, that you’re using Snap, take this all to the self-serve. I mean, SNAP don’t mind. The only thing is anything that’s not food. You pay for it with your regular card. Checker has to deal with that. Plus, like SNAP’s got its own specials this week. Ten bucks off produce. That’s a good deal! But you’d have to talk with the checker. It’s up to you.”
Fruit never looked — or tasted — so good.
Sigh. Anonymity, farewell! Long and short is, in my nervousness I try to sneak through using autopay, because all I’m getting is food. Except I screw the autopay up anyway. The machine calls Dan the supervisor over. You feel like all eyes are on you. And, dammit, he notices I’m using SNAP. But somehow he doesn’t freak out. We complete the operation and I walk away a free man. I suddenly feel liberated as I walk out the doors. Tonight, I’m carrying two heavy bags back. There’s a week’s meals in them. Sixty-even bucks. It’s a small nudge, but man I’m so grateful. It makes all the difference in the world.
The Agency: CalFresh/SNAP. Call 211, or County of San Diego CalFresh, (866) 262-9881. Or hunger hotline, (866) 348-6479
Hours: 7 am-5 pm Monday to Friday
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