If Only You Knew Me
“I’m over here trying to make a mirepoix. What the hell am I going to do with a fancy vinaigrette?” His name is Dylan (it’s not, but we’ll call him that), and he lives on the sidewalk beside my grocery store. His neighbors are an ever-changing number of mostly men who reside in tents, cars, and … some … on mattresses on the walk leading up to Sprouts Farmers Market, an upscale grocery offering organic produce and all-natural foods.
Dylan is a former banquet chef. He worked at some pretty swanky spots in his day. An accident on the job left him physically unable to work. What happened after that reads like the children’s book series—one unfortunate event after another. His wife missed the big income, filed for divorce, and kicked him out of the house. Women use the phrase “took him for everything he had” all the time, but it’s easy to forget that there’s another side to that financial coin, and in this case, it was just bad enough to leave Dylan, who is my age, in a spot not quite optimal for getting back on his feet.
“A few bad mistakes,” that’s what he says when he talks about trying to pull himself back up from the loss of a job he loved, the death of a marriage, and an injury with which he would live the rest of his life. But who among us hasn’t veered a little when faced with our rock bottom? Or maybe you haven’t yet experienced yours, so that’s still to be seen.
“Sprouts Sidewalk” has been Dylan’s address now for ten years. He keeps a double tent, a Louisville Slugger (“for when things get rough”), and a couple of Pitt Bull mixes named D.O.G. and Daisy Lu. He also cooks dinner for the others on his retro Smokey Joe grill.
On this particular day, I had dropped off an onion, one carrot (his only refrigeration is a small cooler), and some celery—for the mirepoix. I also left a box of vegetable broth (hard to come by from donations and too costly to buy) and some bottles of water. I stayed for a chat. Dylan walks with a cane and keeps a table outside his tent that serves as a spot for neighbors to leave gifted goods.
The woman had left a bottle of red balsamic vinaigrette. I’m assuming it was expired or nearly, or maybe she had picked it up at one point, thinking she might use it but didn’t. I know. I’ve played that donation game. Clean the pantry and, instead of throwing everything in the trash, donate it to make myself feel better about not wasting and virtuous for thinking of others.
But did I think of them?
There’s not much one can do with a bottle of vinaigrette on the street.
Before donating, talk. Ask for a name. Get to know a person. Inquire about their likes and dislikes. Even the unhoused are diabetic, suffer from high cholesterol, have food allergies, and maintain taste preferences.
His name is Dylan. He needs carrots, onions, celery, broth, and beans. He wants to feed those who don’t have means to feed themselves.
