I spent a day volunteering at a St. John's food bank. Here's what I saw

Lesley Burgess hands me a laminated list and points to a row of industrial shelves lining the walls, nearly sagging under the weight of canned food.

"We try to give everyone one of everything," she tells me. Then go back, see what else the pantry can spare — maybe a box of Hamburger Helper, some ramen noodles.

"We'd rather people have too much food than too little," she says, filling a cardboard box of her own.

I'm packing a food hamper, my first, for a senior woman. This client, like everyone who requests a package, gets a can of evaporated milk, some beans, a couple cans of soup. When it comes time to pick the vegetables, I'm stumped, trying to decide what might go best with the canned lasagna I've picked out for her.

Green beans? Green beans. 

I throw in some pasta, potatoes and mushroom soup, too. That was my own poverty meal, back when I was struggling to put myself through university — all of it boiled up together with whatever greens I could scavenge. A weird, gloopy casserole that kept me full, at least.

I turn to the volunteer beside me, a woman who later tells me she's been working for this food bank for 17 years, back when it operated out of a church. 

"It's a lot of pressure, isn't it?" I ask her. "Deciding what meals somebody's going to eat."

I pick orange juice instead of apple, wondering if this client, because of her age, might need the extra vitamin C. Then I wondered if orange juice had more vitamins in it than apple. I'm no dietitian.

I added some fibre-rich cereal instead of the pre-portioned bags of Froot Loops, which I later discover are popular among some of the regulars lining up outside. I start second-guessing my choices. Who really wants muesli, anyway?

The woman I'm packing for gets four eggs, a fresh-baked loaf of bread and a single sleeve of crackers. I toss in a box of Rice Krispies, a few tea bags. No meat today, a staff worker tells me. They're out of frozen beef.

I place the finished hamper on the shelves, the woman's name taped to the box. Lesley looks over at me. "They get one of those a month," she says. Then she points to a smaller box. That one's for emergencies, enough food for a day or two, if someone's already had their monthly hamper. 

My mouth drops open. The box I just filled, even stretched out, won't last a week.

There's simply not enough food to go around, Lesley sighs. Most people don't realize a food bank can't feed them all month long. It leaves them scrambling to fill the gap, she explains, relying on a medley of charities and community organizations to put even a meagre amount on their tables.