Category: Community service

Some Days I Miss the Freezer Sale

Anne Moul2 Comments

For many years, our church did a massive fund-raiser called the Freezer Sale. Looking back, I can’t believe what was accomplished in that project. We literally cooked every Saturday from early summer through November, producing hundreds of homemade soups, entrees, side dishes, and pies. A small group of us steered the project from menu-planning to procuring ingredients to  marketing the event and managing the financial record-keeping. This all culminated in a sale on the Saturday before Thanksgiving which became a community tradition.  

Like many undertakings of this nature, the Freezer Sale eventually ran its course, and for a number of reasons—burn-out, Covid, changes in the evolution of the church itself—it no longer exists. Toward the end, it was turning into way too much work for way too few people, and then the pandemic sealed its fate. The dozen or so commercial freezers in the basement stand empty and unplugged and are probably on the market to be sold if they haven’t been already.

But on these crisp fall Saturday mornings, I miss coming into the parish hall and smelling onions cooking or chickens roasting or seeing a group of parishioners gathered around a giant trash can peeling apples or potatoes. There was always chatter and laughter and at times, frustration, and griping. None of us were professional cooks or had background in food management, but we just plugged along with the various skills that we had and made it happen. There was a spirit there, a sense of camaraderie, a sense of working for the greater good that superseded all of the challenges we faced. The Freezer Sale provided nourishment for the soul as well as the body.

We told our stories while chopping onions and vented our worries and fears while rolling pie dough. We laughed about the antics of grandchildren and pets while slamming overloaded trays into the cantankerous dishwasher. And after most cooking sessions, we sat down together to rest and share a communion of sorts. Coffee and baked goods after the liturgy of shepherd’s pie.

The Freezer Sale was an example of believing in what you cannot see. We did not see the elderly widow alone in her apartment, savoring ham and bean soup on a cold night. Or the family tearing into chicken enchiladas giving the exhausted mom time to catch her breath. Or that the proceeds from the sale provided a winter coat for a child, a rental or fuel oil payment, or Christmas gifts in a room that would be otherwise empty.

So occasionally I’m nostalgic for getting up early on Saturday mornings and lugging my Kitchen Aid mixer into the church for a mashed-potato-making marathon. Or sitting at the check-out desk, cash box at the ready, waiting for the doors to open on sale day. I miss the people and the knowledge that when one of us grew tired, someone would be there to take the spoon from our hand and keep stirring. And I miss the special grace that comes from showing up, even when you don’t feel like it, and saying, “What can I do to help?”

The Hope Squad

Anne Moul1 Comment

I recently spent a day volunteering at the vaccination center that has opened near my home.  I was assigned to the front door in a sort of Wal-Mart greeter position. I would call out the appointment times in five-minute increments, ask everyone who entered, “Do you have a fever, cough, or shortness of breath?” and distribute information about what to expect after receiving a vaccine. I answered questions as best I could and tried to keep the lines moving.

I was utterly blown away by how quickly a former craft store was transformed into a pop-up medical facility, structured down to the last detail to ensure patient safety and comfort. Volunteers took temperatures, registered patients, and provided assistance wherever needed. Clinical volunteers, many doing this in addition to their paid jobs, vaccinated patients and oversaw the post-vaccination waiting area. A young woman interpreter accompanied Spanish-speaking patients throughout the entire process, offering explanations and reassurance.

During this past year, I have been holed up in my house, watching the pandemic unfold on a screen. But getting just a tiny glimpse of how we have come together to fix this nightmare was a revelation. I mean, who figured all this out in such a short time? Transforming empty stores, installing wi-fi networks and computers, providing security for vaccine transport, creating appointment websites, organizing hundreds of volunteers, making sure all of the paperwork is correct– the list is endless. And this is happening in communities all across the country.  A year ago, even six months ago, we had no idea that we’d be vaccinating the entire population, let alone developing a plan about how to do it.

What I saw on my first day as a Hope Squad volunteer was nothing short of a miracle, and I will admit, I struggle with those who whine and criticize the efforts being made by our government, flawed as it may be. There are hundreds of thousands of dedicated people–from the brilliant researchers who developed the vaccines to the lovely gentleman providing wheelchair assistance at the local center who are helping to save lives every single day. I think in this world of “if-it’s-not-my-political-party-it-has-to-be-wrong” attitude, it’s easy to lose sight of what we’re actually accomplishing together as a country.

The Hope Squad is great branding and a catchy name to encourage volunteerism. But it also describes what I saw taking place in a former AC Moore store a few miles from where I live. It didn’t matter who you were or what the hat you were wearing said—if you had an appointment, you were warmly welcomed and received a life-saving vaccination. If you didn’t have an appointment, information was provided to help you get one. Everyone who entered was treated with kindness, respect, and understanding. The faces I saw coming through those doors reflected anxiety and apprehension but also relief and gratitude. Having the opportunity to experience this first-hand gave me hope in a year that’s felt bleak and depressing in so many ways.    

Two Refrigerators

Anne MoulLeave a comment

We’re expecting a new refrigerator to be delivered this week. The one we have has worked faithfully for twenty-three years, but we thought we’d be pro-active and not wait until it died. It’s a nineties side-by-side with limited space, so years ago, we bought a small used Kenmore for the garage to hold beer and sodas and extra food for picnics and holidays. I use it constantly, especially for garden harvests in the summer and as a staging area for big grocery runs, which I do more frequently in these days of eating primarily at home. The garage frig occasionally drips a little condensation on the top shelf, but otherwise appears healthy and this past week, went off to a new owner. The kitchen frig will be moved to the garage when the new one arrives, and we’re crossing our fingers that it will adjust to its loss of status without complaint.

Many of us have two refrigerators as well as a separate freezer because there is such an abundance of food in our lives. We don’t give grocery shopping or online food ordering a second thought. If we run out of something, we go out and get more. If we purchase bulk packages of chicken breasts at the wholesale club, we’ve got room to store them. We are surrounded by local farms producing wonderful  fruits and vegetables. But on Sunday I was again reminded that’s not the case for an ever-growing number of people in this country. During the Rev. Canon Jan Naylor Cope’s sermon in the Washington National Cathedral’s livestreamed service, she mentioned a recent article in the New York Times Magazine that chronicles hunger in America. In this land of super-size me, of endless buffets, of an entire television network dedicated to food, more people than ever are going hungry.

It’s a sobering article especially the pictures of children grabbing for hot dogs and the little girl clutching a loaf of bread as though it were a beloved stuffed animal. Much of the food being consumed is processed and  nutritionally lacking—heavy on the carbs and salt and light on the fresh produce. The photo-journalist traveled across the country to tell her story, but we don’t have to go that far. The pandemic has pulled back the curtain on a reality that has been all too easy to ignore for those of us blessed with full pantries and full bellies.

I frequently pass the new emergency food hub on the east end of town and the parking lot is filled with cars waiting in line. Hunger is right here, right now. And I know some may say that those receiving food are too lazy to find jobs or they spend their money on the wrong things or they just want to work the system. Yes, there’s always going to be some of that. But until we’ve walked in the shoes of a laid-off single parent or an elderly grandmother caring for grandchildren on her social security income, let’s not rush to judgement. Hunger is never a choice.

As I wait for my fancy new refrigerator that I can fill with my latest haul from Wegman’s, I think about how some people in this article don’t even have one place to keep their food, let alone two. I cannot begin to fathom what it means to be hungry or to not know when you’ll be able to feed your family again. The Crop Walks, food banks, and many local and national organizations are fighting this battle, but it’s a long way from being won.

Church Kitchens

Anne Moul3 Comments

I belong to a church which holds an event we call Freezer Sale on the Saturday before Thanksgiving. From late June through November, a dedicated crew of parishioners spends every Saturday in the church kitchen preparing hundreds of soups, entrees, sides, and pies. Each item is made from scratch and then packaged, labeled with ingredients and cooking instructions, and tucked away into one of a dozen gigantic freezers in the basement.

When I tell people what we do, they are astounded that we are willing to devote most of our Saturday mornings for six months of the year to church. Astounded at the sheer labor intensity of cooking massive amounts of chicken and ground beef, stirring and cooling gallons of soup, peeling bushels of potatoes and apples, and rolling endless numbers of pie crusts. Astounded at the amount of planning and shopping and folding of boxes and schlepping of food down the steps to the freezers.  Astounded that this is not a once-and-done weekend marathon but an ongoing project for half the year, and that our church members happily volunteer to do it.

But they don’t see the powerful impact of this project from the inside. Yes, the profits go to support a variety of outreach ministries in the community. But I think what happens to those of us doing the cooking may be where the true ministry lies. We share our stories while we chop onions. We vent our worries and fears while rolling pie crusts. We laugh at the latest antics of grandchildren or pets while we load the cantankerous dishwasher.  We sit down afterwards to rest and share a communion of sorts. Coffee and baked goods after the liturgy of the kitchen.

One of our elderly parishioners used to come in every week to fold pie boxes or paste labels on items. He was disappointed if there were no boxes to fold. Someone would always keep an eye on him when he toddled down the treacherous stairs to the restroom.

Another gentleman only comes on days when we’re peeling potatoes or apples. He sits in the circle gathered around the trash can where we throw the peels, and regales us with stories of his days in the British Navy.

Freezer sale potato peeling

A young woman away at college pursuing her culinary dreams comes home for a weekend and shows us everything she’s learned about biscuit dough.

When we need something, whether it’s a few new skillets or a few new freezers, someone among us steps up and makes sure we get it.

We bring what we have to the kitchen. Whether it’s cooking skills or financial skills to figure out the pricing or connections to farmers who can get us good produce or simply a willingness to help, it is all welcomed and needed and cherished, as is every person who shows up on Saturday morning and says, “What can I do?”

Bev with corn

Just like worship in the sanctuary, work in the church kitchen requires blind faith. While we husk corn on a hot summer morning, we don’t see the elderly widow savoring her chicken corn soup on a cold night three months later. While we wait for the onions to caramelize, we don’t see the family tearing into chicken enchiladas while an exhausted mom sips a glass of wine, knowing her children will be fed something nourishing that they enjoy. Nor do we see the college student microwaving a container of homemade mac and cheese while cramming for exams, a welcome change from his usual fare of pizza or ramen noodles. We don’t see what our profits may provide—a winter coat for a child, a rental or fuel oil payment, Christmas gifts in a room that might otherwise be empty.

We know that our faith is a lot like the freezer sale— not a once-and-done Sunday only project, but an ongoing effort that requires lots of people helping us along the way. That it’s not always easy and that we don’t give up even when the dishwasher leaks and the soup won’t thicken, and we run out of cheese for the quiches. That we believe in the far-reaching and abundant Grace of something we can’t see or touch. That showing up in the church kitchen on Saturday mornings is our way of saying, “Here I am, Lord. What can I do?”

 Freezer sale pies