Slimy Hot Dog Duty

Today, I went to serve lunch at St. Vincent's Free Dining Room in Oakland with the community service committee in my pre-med club, AMSA (American Medical Student Association). I admit, I haven't been as involved in this club since last year, because small group leading for IVCCF takes up most of my time. I've also been distancing myself from it because I find that I just don't get along terribly well with the people in it (more thoughts on this later).

When the seven of us got there, around 9am, we had a quick tour of the kitchen area. We then washed our hands, and donned hairnets, plastic aprons, and gloves. I rolled up my sleeves and mentally prepared myself for serving. Jesus served the poor. This is what I felt called to do today instead of attending senior class prayer, instead of hanging out with various visiting friends, instead of studying for my last midterm of my college career. I was ready.

Two other girls and I were brought to a back room, where we were assigned to "sorting duty." We were told to pick out the hot dog and sausage pieces from mushy noodles, in about twenty industrial-sized trays of leftover pasta (from what day? I don't know). Before I allowed myself to ruminate on the "WHY?" of the situation, I plunged my gloves hands into the mounds of flabby, gloopy mess.

Pluck, pluck, pluck. Drop into clean white buckets (that look like they once held laundry detergent). Dump noodles into the garbage can.

Hot dogs were easy to find because they were sliced into coin shapes and were a bright red color. Sausages were harder to separate because oftentimes they are the same pale shade of beige as the pasta.

Sift, pluck, toss, flip, pluck.

I suppose the adage goes, "Beggars can't be choosers." I thought about what this means in the context of serving in a food shelter. The sausages that we were "recycling" weren't for today--they are for tomorrow's meal. I am all for frugality and maximizing utility, but deconstructing leftovers isn't something I've considered for LD dinners...yet. Today's meal included sliced white bread, whole link sausages, mystery vegetable blend, a hot pocket, and a ladle of applesauce. The volunteers and I ate the same meal as those being served, using the same re-washed plastic sporks. But really, can beggars really not be choosers? I'll leave you hanging on this one, because after three hours of "slimy hot dog duty," I still have no answers.

The first hour of plucking hot dogs and sausages out of the pasta went by quickly. I guess premeds are just competitive in all contexts, and we made a game out of it. Tray after refrigerated tray was harvested of its meat (or meat-like) components, and the rubbery residue dumped by cold, numb hands. I liked handling the trays of pasta that were slimy enough to easily remove the hot dogs, but not so slimy that they slid out of my gloved hands. I didn't like the trays that were baked dry, because that meant picking apart dry clumps of noodles. We salvaged about sixty pounds of meat.

I thought about food industry. Someone somewhere is probably doing the same tedious job for a living. I wondered if people were lining up outside right then to receive a hot meal. When my thoughts ran out, I tried to make small talk with the other two girls in the room. Both are freshmen, and both remind me of what I dislike about premeds.

Girl: So are you applying to med school soon?

Me: No, I'm going to apply next year.

Girl: Really?! That sucks.

Me: When you get nearer to the end, you'll find that a lot of people do take off time.

Girl: No, they don't. All of my older friends went straight to med school. All of them.

Me: Actually, the average matriculant age for medical school is 24 in the US. You should read the AAMC MSAR.

Girl: (silence).

I kept a straight face and a calm tone for that last line. Sometimes I can't help myself and find that I really do just have to get in the last word. The girl was annoying, but I was probably just as annoying. This is why I don't like being around premeds; I am one.

The director came to check on us and told us to eat lunch, because the dining room was closing. I was first shocked that more than three hours had already gone by. I thought I'd get to interact with people. I thought I'd get to serve them or eat with them. Instead, I was disappointed that I had spent it all wrist-deep in pasta noodles and hot dogs, talking (arguing?) with people that I can't bring myself to like.

There isn't really a conclusion to this blog post. We ate, cleaned up, and then walked wordlessly back to the bus stop to resume our college student lives. Just like the many experiences that you and I have.