My teenage students weren't enthusiastic as we battled morning traffic. They were happy to skip class but this food bank volunteering thing had gotten old.
Their attitude: People are hungry. Yeah. Why do we have to fix it?
Our first stint had been such fun. In the cavernous, chilly warehouse mountains of donated food waited to be sorted. For three hours we pawed through an astonishing array of cans, boxes and jars. Cereal got tossed into one bin, beans over there. Kids ran around with armfuls of groceries, skidding up to pallets to dump their loads. The crazy stuff people contributed --- rhododendron tea, chili-pomegranate jelly, a half-eaten box of Oreos. It was a treasure hunt.
But ever since then we had been bagging rice; week after week, measuring exactly 16 ounces into each plastic bag, slapping on cooking instructions. The glee of ditching class faded to weary resignation. Even clowning around in our hair nets and latex gloves got old. Boring, uninspiring work.
But on this morning it changed.