We were driving home after dinner at a new Italian place, very full and very happy. An aluminum pie plate sat at my feet. The leftover penne and meatballs contained within it made the car smell absolutely delicious. We passed some nondescript brown brick buildings, and Dave read one of the signs out front.
“Look,” he said, pointing to the buildings, “A food bank! If you want, we can drop off those leftovers so you can withdraw them later.”
“Um, I think food banks give your food to other people.”
He feigned shock. “Then that’s a horrible bank!”
“They take your deposited food and give it to others,” I explained to my husband. “Basically, it’s redistribution of food wealth. Fucking commies.”
“We should look for a food credit union. We could probably get a better food interest rate.”
“And lower fees?” I asked.
“I wonder if a food bank would have a foreign food transaction fee.”
Dave looked over at me. “Like, if you deposited Ramen noodles, they’d take a cut?”
“Oh, definitely.” He nodded vigorously. “That’s how they get you.”