City Lights: Food boxes help even if they leave a certain emptiness

The other week, I went grocery shopping and brought a bag to fill for charity, as we’re wont to do during the holiday season. The blue reusable bag, produced by a church pantry, contained a list of suggested donations on the side: rice, cereal, canned soup and other nonperishables.

With one of my smaller fingers looped around that bag’s handle, I clutched other bags to stock for my own kitchen, and I took note before long of my different speeds in filling them. The blue one reached its capacity quickly enough — if the guidelines called for soup, any can would do. Rice? No distinction between basmati or Arborio. Cereal? I kept nutrition in mind and reached for something low in sugar.

When it came to the other bags, the pace slowed considerably. I had recipes on hand for the week, and generic brands gave way to specific ones: this particular spice, half a cup of this hard-to-find grain. The extra attention I devoted to my own list wasn’t borne of selfishness, but simply of opportunity. I knew who I was cooking for and could tailor my purchases to fit their needs.

By contrast, the recipients of the donation bag had no clear identity. They were simply stomachs to be filled or, rather, numbers: Second Harvest Food Bank of Orange County declares on its website that nearly 400,000 people in the region struggle with hunger. Of course, “400,000 people” is the wrong terminology. It’s better to think of it as one person 400,000 times.

Twice in the last year, I joined a group of friends in boxing food at Second Harvest. With mounds of donated cans and packages occupying the floor, we stood in an assembly line and took charge of inserting items as each box passed by. The contents seemed chosen to meet the bare requirements for multiple meals: One of us packed spaghetti, another oatmeal and so on.

When the last item had been wedged in, we saw the boxes closed and prepared for delivery. But I doubt that any of us ever saw the boxes opened — each one in a different kitchen or dining room with a different set of hands to sort through it. It’s easy to congratulate ourselves when we donate, and we can muster a vague sort of empathy. If we faced an empty pantry, then the sight of a food box would fill us with gratitude, and those picky insistences that we follow when shopping for ourselves wouldn’t cross our minds.

Or would they? Food may be the most basic form of survival — we can live without a job or a roof over our heads, but not without enough nutrients to last the day — and yet, for many of us, it’s so much more than that: a dedicated craft, a prized family tradition, an indication of status. Consider that one of the most successful comedies this year was Jon Favreau’s “Chef,” about a man who finds his bliss, and even mends his marriage, by setting off on a cross-country odyssey in his newly launched food truck.

I learned to cook out of necessity when I attended graduate school on a cafeteria-free campus, but as I mastered the basics and began to find (and tweak) more challenging recipes, I realized the pride that comes with culinary skills. According to Merriam-Webster, the word “chef” is short for the French “chef de cuisine,” which means “head of the kitchen.” In short, “chef” is pretty much “chief” without the “i.”

Many of the boxes and bags that we pack this time of year are likely to land in the hands of chiefs — or former chiefs, now diminished by an unlucky break or two. Let’s imagine one of them now. Her name is Maria, we’ll say, and when her family’s restaurant thrived before the recession, she felt a glint of exhilaration working the stove in front of her children, her fingers fast and nimble as they mixed spices and squeezed just the right amount of lime.

In her kitchen now, Maria empties the contents of her donated box, grouping together the refried beans, tortillas and seasoning packet that add up to some generic approximation of “Mexican food.” She is hungry and thankful, no doubt, but life has taught her more than hunger and thanks. It has also taught her discernment and a demand for excellence, and between these stranger-provided gifts, she pictures the specialty oil and fresh peppers that once created wide eyes around the table.

If Maria took me shopping, she could teach me a great deal — about cooking as much as compassion. But she is one of 400,000, which means that the more time and money I devote to her, the less I have for the other 399,999.

When we finished our shifts at Second Harvest, the other volunteers and I applauded upon hearing how many boxes we had packed, and rightly so. We had done justice, for lack of a better word, for that many more families on a given day.

It’s only when I set my pans out to cook a meal at home that I fully understand the limitations of that justice. As donors, we can always give more. The people on the receiving end can do better with their own grocery lists than with ours. If we need consolation, we can look to the hunger statistics that we’ve helped put a dent in. Even our second-best efforts send everyone to bed full.

MICHAEL MILLER is the features editor for Times Community News in Orange County. He can be reached at michael.miller@latimes.com or (714) 966-4617.