Brittany Aubin is a senior in the School of International Service and the School of Communication, specializing in development and Latin America. A New-Yorker with a serious case of wanderlust, Brittany spent last fall in Chile, traveled through Brazil and Peru and plans on returning to South America after graduation. While torn between dueling loves of activism and journalism, she hopes to some day join the rank of crusading muckrakers a la Mother Jones.

By BRITTANY AUBIN
Observer Contributor
Nov. 15, 2007

Dylan Petrohilos and Olga Tsitlik stand in front of a cupboard full of food. Like most teenagers, they are thinking about potential meals, dreaming of concoctions from the limited supplies the pantry offers. After a ten-minute debate, involving much poking and prodding of possible ingredients, Petrohilos settles on a bag of potatoes, some spices and an almost empty bottle of olive oil. Tsitlik, a 17-year-old high school student, holds an oatmeal canister, reading off ingredients carefully. She scans the label, searches the shelves. Oatmeal cookies, she decides.

By now, five others have joined Petrohilos and Tsitlik, and the tiny kitchen in American University’s Kay Spiritual Life Center is filled with utensils, mixing bowls and activists. The weekly ritual of Food Not Bombs, a group that makes and then shares a meal with the homeless community in Dupont Circle, begins and discussion turns to politics of the left and the proper way to slice an onion.

The Food Not Bombs chapter at American University meets every Sunday afternoon, attracting students and non-students, though no one in the group tops 25 years and most can’t yet buy a drink.

Observer Photo by Ryan Sibley
The holiday season is a prime time for donations like these.

According to an estimate in a 2006 Fannie Mae Foundation report, the District has slightly over 6,000 homeless residents, with the definition of homeless including those without shelter, those in temporary or emergency shelter and those in precarious housing that are in imminent danger of losing it. At best, the potatoes and cookies made by the Food Not Bombs members will feed a dozen of the 6,000. Yet, while homeless communities are traditionally marginalized, the simple home-cooked fare offered by Food Not Bombs makes little distinction between the server and served, a creed that resonates with the young once-a-week chefs busying themselves in Kay’s kitchen.

“The idea with Food Not Bombs is that it’s a community picnic,” said Arielle Burgdorf, a 16-year-old high-school student wearing small, skull-shaped earrings. “It’s not patronizing.”

Tsitlik has commissioned Burgdorf as co-conspirator in cookie making, and the two puzzle over vegan alternatives to the recipe’s suggested eggs and butter. Vegetable oil and egg substitute produce a less than satisfactory mixture.

While the bakers work on batter consistency, other members tackle the rest of the menu - piecing together a fruit salad, guacamole, and rice and beans. Most of the items have been donated or taken from the trash at large grocery stores, a practice known as dumpster diving, said Jeff Labow, 20, another regular member of the group who hopes to be a chef one day.

Labow compares the weekly menu planning to daytime television hero MacGyver’s ability to defuse a bomb with a paper clip and a roll of duct tape. Like the crafty secret agent, the group operates with a bit of impulsivity and disregard for some rules. Today’s avocadoes and onions for the guacamole were probably gathered from a dumpster and the pineapple and bananas in the fruit salad were smuggled from the school’s dining hall. A pair of oven mitts and a working can opener left in the communal kitchen are considered significant technological advancements.

“It’s a landmark week for Food Not Bombs,” observes Sonya Hetrick, a senior at American, before returning to her task of sweeping spilled oats from the counter.

One hour and a few discussions on anarchism and environmental vandalism later, a coherent meal emerges from the ovens. The group bundles everything in trays and tin foil, loads a crate with paper plates and utensils and then heads into the crisp October day. A few members stay on campus, tied down by school assignments or volunteering to clean the mess left by the cooking escapades. Four arrive in Dupont.

Labow, already attracting attention in a pleated, khaki, much-patched skirt and black knee-high socks, stands on the Circle’s fountain steps to announce the group’s entrance.

“Good people of Dupont, never fear,” he shouts, his voice booming in the style of a town crier.

Immediately, a man appears. “You finally arrived,” he says with a smile, as he helps himself to the spread laid out on the steps.

A few minutes later, Labow is sharing a burrito with another homeless man in a knit cap, as they discuss a protest the members had mentioned the week before. Petrohilos, Burgdorf and Tsitlik sit near the food, helping to serve those who need assistance and chatting with regulars. The food is available for all of those who are hungry, but few of the more-affluent denizens on the sunny afternoon cared to partake in the community supper and many unlucky enough to be near the Food Not Bombs serving location edge awkwardly away.

“For a lot of these people, Dupont is their home. It doesn’t have walls or indoor heating but it’s their home. It’s where their friends are,” says Labow. “We just don’t feed. We make friends with them. We talk to them. We hang out.”

The four Food Not Bombs members were only some of the friends present this Sunday. Nearby, a clown troubadour with a painted face and bright yellow pants plays an electric blue guitar. Fellow homeless residents of the circle listen, clapping from the Circle’s benches with full plates balanced in their laps. A few feet away, Burgdorf and Tsitlik munch on oatmeal cookies and plan future chapters of Food Not Bombs in Washington’s urbanizing outskirts. The troubadour lends his cellophane streamers to a homeless man before switching to a sad country drawl. The man spins and swirls to the encouragement of friends on benches and steps, everyone well-fed for now. The clown-cum-troubadour’s voice carries, “I’m so lonesome I could cry, I could cry.” The blue and purple streams flash rainbows in the afternoon sun, the rhythm contrasting the song’s sober tone.

Today, for students and non-students, houseless and housed, clown and citizens, the world is a little friendlier, a bit less hungry and a lot less lonesome.