It's Tuesday, and I'm making my rounds at the local Safeway, shopping for the Community Meal kitchen, sponsored by the Episcopal church I attend. I work as a cook there once a week. In my small, remote town in the Colorado mountains, Safeway is the only grocery store.
The store has forbidden me to accept food donations at the deli counter, so I speed past it, wheeling my empty cart to the back and through the double doors toward the dairy cooler. I check to see if Rickie is working because she sometimes has crates of milk, eggs and yogurt ready for the dumpster; I can have them after she scans them. Then I move on to see Kelly in the grocery department, but today she has nothing. "See Anita in bakery," she says.