A Mexican friend of mine called while Kipp and I were having lunch and asked if we would give her a ride to the local food shelter. “Sure,” I said, so we all trundled over to the basement of the First Lutheran Church where the shelter is located.
Mina knew the routine, and we waited for her while she filled out her forms. An elderly fellow who was working approached Kipp and gave him his very own box of Little Debbie Snack Cakes as a “Christmas Treat”. I cringed, but let him accept, quite sure Kipp will now wonder why we can’t go to the Food Shelf more often. Thus far I’d managed to keep him from asking for “snack cakes” or Twinkies or Ho-Hos at the grocery store. I’m not sure he even knew they existed.
The lady at the Food Shelf informed me that the Little Debbie truck driver makes regular stops, giving them all sorts of goodies—and she proceeded to load up an entire grocery bag with four or five boxes for my friend, Mina—my friend who has already had one heart attack at the age of 30, my friend whose children’s front teeth are visibly decaying.
“The children love these things,” the lady said efficiently, happy to be emptying her shelves into bags for the needy.
I felt needy just about then. I felt the need to give the people running the food shelf a few good swift kicks in the rear. Mina was allowed four bags of groceries; couldn’t they have filled that fourth bag with something other than the Little Debbie Truck Driver’s garbage?
I wanted to say something, but couldn’t bring myself to deflate the bustling spirits of the food shelf’s elderly volunteers, not then and there, but perhaps a gentle letter of concern, written to the director, might do some good.
4:52:36 PM 
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