It’s a hot Wednesday morning as I board the 40 bus to make my way to the People’s Kitchen in South Philly. The bus is unsurprisingly crowded—people fanning themselves and trying not to bump into each other on their way to work. Babies are crying, and some folks are loudly conversing about their ever–growing grocery lists. Despite the noise and bustle, all I could think about was the 30 different ways I might screw up my first day. Dropping the ingredients. Messing up the measurements for a dish. Getting a chili pepper burn (which did happen to me later). My reputation as someone very unskilled in the kitchen left me feeling a bit daunted. When I tell friends and family members about my summer internship placement, many were (rightfully) doubtful about my role—I mean, after all, I’m someone who doesn’t even know how to boil eggs properly.
These thoughts continue to linger even long after reaching my stop and making my way through the busy Italian Market, passing families in line for stalls of fresh fruits and vegetables. But when I finally reach the People’s Kitchen and see April—my boss and the lead chef on Wednesdays—give me a small wave and a warm smile while speaking to a group of tourists outside the kitchen, the doubts that pervaded my morning all dissipate. As I wait for April to finish up her speech, I introduce myself to Rebecca and Sam, the other members of the kitchen. They’re stocking up the community pantry as local residents swarm the area, all excited to get the free dry goods.
When I enter the building, I get acquainted with the colorful mosaic artwork and posters proudly stating “No Arena in Chinatown” and “Feed the Hood” on the mustard yellow walls. The space itself is small, but each corner, wall, nook, and cranny is maximized to the fullest—a floating shelf of spices, a rack of various types of oils and bottles of vinegar, and random messages on the walls stating basic kitchen rules and reminders like “Wear an apron!” or “Wash your hands frequently.”
This is my Wednesday morning routine for the next two months: Boarding a busy, air–conditioned bus with sweat trickling down my face from waiting outside in the sweltering heat, walking through the bustling market, and greeting Rebecca (who always says hello to me in her impressive Korean), all while excitedly waiting to learn what recipe we’ll make that day.
The People’s Kitchen, housed in what was once a for–profit restaurant, is now a community space where up to 100 free meals are distributed at 3 p.m. every day on weekdays. In proper mutual aid form, the People’s Kitchen is autonomous and led by the Philly community for the Philly community. Like many other mutual aid groups, it was born out of the onset of the COVID–19 pandemic in March 2020 in response to the community’s visible needs. Four years later, they continue to feed and fight for the community, collectively.
A kitchen is one of the last places I thought I’d learn any delicate life lessons. But the People’s Kitchen has taught me practical skills—how to handle a knife properly, what a “shrub” is (a drink that is made up of a combination of vinegar, sugar, and fruit), the basic rules of food preparation—and also the glory of community.
Lesson 1: Never wear a white shirt when picking sour cherries
Even with an apron on, those cherry stains will still find their way onto my shirt and face.
It’s another busy day in the kitchen working on sour cherries with my new friends, Caitlin and Fran. Caitlin is a community lawyer who works with immigrants and farm workers, and Fran is a retired woman and member of the local Jewish Voice for Peace chapter. There is something acutely precious about conversing with fellow kitchen comrades about the power of protests, encampments, and the liberation of Palestine within our lifetimes, all while cherry juice is squirting in our faces.
Like the cherries that stained my shirt, the people I have met in the kitchen have uniquely and unapologetically left stains on my life. The diversity of the kitchen is what allows the space to feel like ours. The volunteers are artists, retirees, high schoolers, college graduates, college students, new Philly residents, and longtime locals. We know very little about each other; in many ways, we do not even know each other at all. But in our limited time, we build community together with mundane tasks like chopping onions or picking cherries. We let ourselves be marked by one another’s presence.
I have a conversation with Una, a high school volunteer, and Victoria, someone who just moved to Philly, as we peel potatoes and chop ginger together. I ask them both about how they define “community.” Victoria beautifully articulates that to her, the community is “sharing space and resources and knowledge with people.” Una tells me that to her, “community can mean a couple of different things.” In this sense, it’s the “physical space you’re in, but also the life you share.”
In those ordinary moments of preparing vegetables together, I gained extraordinary lessons from Victoria and Una. Yes, we created community through that physical proximity. But, as Una expressed, perhaps community is also fostered by the vulnerable act of sharing life with one another and sharing food with one another. We were entering each other’s lives and living with the intention to be disrupted and stained by the people who enter it.
Although my white shirt with the once bright cherry stains has now faded, the outline of the blots continues to mark it. The same is true for the volunteers I met this summer. Although time has passed and I don’t see the same people in the kitchen every Wednesday, their stories and our conversations continue to linger.
Lesson 2: If all comes to worst, we can always make stir–fry
One Wednesday morning, I walk in with the news from Sam that I, along with my co–intern, Luke, will be leading the kitchen. Having no experience in such leadership roles, I’m very nervous. Sam shares with us that, due to scheduling conflicts, there’s no head chef here. As I nervously giggle, Sam tries to reassure me that a large group of volunteers is coming that day. She recommends that we make stir–fry with the excess vegetables that have been desperately waiting to be used. The next thing I know, Luke and I are leading a group of five people to wash spinach, chop bell peppers, and cook the rice.
My initial intimidation turned into great pride in our work. Sometimes, the idea of “collectiveness” feels very abstract. In the kitchen, however, collective labor is not only tangibly real but also vital to making any of the work possible. Showing up for each other, reassuring each other, and, therefore, helping each other with the task of making meals for the community makes the process less daunting.
Knowing that individualistic greed has the potential to taint our relationships and burden our shoulders left me scared when tasked with leading a kitchen. I’d been trained to believe that anything and everything must be dealt with and solved on my own. Knowing that we are all responsible for each other, that we will take care of each other, and that we can rely on each other makes life so much more beautiful. Thank goodness for the people who made that day in the kitchen possible. Thank goodness for teamwork. And thank goodness for stir–fry.
Lesson 3: Food is political
Philly is no stranger to food insecurity. According to a 2022 report by Philabundance, about 15.2% of the population in Philadelphia County is food insecure, which is about 242,500 people in total. A Feeding America study finds that our county has an annual food budget shortfall—the total additional cost required by food insecure folks to purchase sufficient food—of about $206,922,000. The People’s Kitchen operates with a deep understanding of Philly’s painful past and present–day realities regarding accessing food. The mutual aid group recognizes that the work and practice of operating a community kitchen cannot be done in a vacuum. “We’re not neutral on political issues,” April says. “So we actively work in a variety of different ways to collectively fight for land justice, raising the minimum wage, economic justice, workers’ rights, immigrant rights, and all these sorts of things. We see all of those issues as part of a larger system of capitalism and greed that is the state of the country today.”
The People’s Kitchen refuses to be apolitical or morally apathetic. Other food justice groups, such as Food Not Bombs West Philly and South Philly’s Punks with Lunch, all operate and work to prepare meals out of the space of the People’s Kitchen. These relationships speak truth to the operation of the organization. April states that the work at the People’s Kitchen is “really different from the traditional idea of a food kitchen” because there is no sense of “clearly identified sides, where it’s ‘the people who get aid’ and ‘the people who provide aid’.” Instead, it’s “less hierarchical and reflects more of an egalitarian system.” This egalitarian system ensures that everyone shares a collective responsibility for the food being made. Moreover, it’s a sustainable approach, where those who receive food can be the same folks who produce those meals in the kitchen.
Food is political and profoundly indicative of systemic inequity. It’s no mistake that those who find themselves facing substance abuse may also be food insecure. It’s not a coincidence that undocumented immigrants and workers are more likely to be food insecure. It’s no accident that elderly populations find themselves in more precarious situations with food insecurity. The People’s Kitchen showcases that food justice and food sovereignty is direct harm reduction. Food justice revolutionizes community resources. Food sovereignty gives communities the agency to reimagine the system of food and food production.
By being unapologetically political, the People’s Kitchen also reinforces the idea that our actions and lives are also political. The way we eat and attain food is political, and how we engage with others will persist in being political. We exist to influence each other and create an impact in some way—whether positively or not. The work at the People’s Kitchen intertwines with the more prominent language, lessons, and labor of liberation. And that perhaps this struggle for liberation can be both fulfilling and delicious.
Lesson 4: Jazz is the secret ingredient to good cooking
Almost every week in the kitchen, April connects her phone to the speaker and plays jazz. The choice of music doesn’t feel like a coincidence. Just like a jazz band, everyone in the kitchen plays a distinct but equally important role.
The People’s Kitchen taught me that there’s no such thing as a “trivial” position. Even if it’s as easy as peeling potatoes or as arduous as washing the dishes, the meals that come out of the kitchen are not possible without each volunteer contributing to their unique role.
Valerie Erwin, one of the founding board members of the People’s Kitchen, shares with me in a phone interview the joy of bringing people together to create something. “Bringing together a team of people who did not know each other before or did not even know how to cook and then produce the meals is very satisfying all around,” she says. “It is very gratifying to see the people feel very proud of themselves that they’re able to do that, to contribute.”
This gratification comes from the place of knowing that we belong. April tells me that with the kitchen, “people can feel like they have a place in the world, that they are worthwhile, and contribute to something positive.” The kitchen becomes a space where we can contribute something positive together; every person has a special purpose, and a sense of belonging can be fostered. In the larger sphere of the world, we can feel unimportant or irrelevant. In the People’s Kitchen, we celebrate our small successes. We share our appreciation for the smaller roles because we recognize that the larger product is a culmination of those small decisions and actions. And together, we create something beautiful.
Lesson 5: Food nourishes the soul. And we will remain!
We will remain. The People’s Kitchen will remain. And the community will remain.
The idea of forever used to scare me—but “forever” can be part of our fight for change. The People’s Kitchen has shown me that “forever” is not stagnation but rather a permanence to work: We are making forever changes.
The People’s Kitchen will remain because we know food has the power to break barriers, forge alliances, and share stories. Victoria reminds us, “we are all deserving of good quality, nutritious food—not just the shit that people throw away.”
Food is not just fundamental to our being, survival, and sustenance but also essential to preservation and existence in a cruel world. Una tells me, “you need something to nourish you, sustain you, and keep you going. The act of feeding yourself and keeping yourself full is so important because it can give you the energy and the strength to not give up persistence. For whatever it is you’re doing.”
Food is also joyful. As April says, “food is not just fuel. It’s also the basis of community. It’s the basis of the general well–being of having, you know, and bringing joy and pleasure to people’s lives.” Food permits us to be in community with each other. “We’re allowed to share this together. We’re making the food together; we’re eating the food together.”
In the field of justice work and organizing, there can be times when the work feels disconnected and elusive. But at the People’s Kitchen, all those involved are able to see that each step leads to the satisfactory result of delicious meals that are enjoyed by the community. We get to witness the fruits of our labor and celebrate each other. Valerie reflects on this similar sentiment. “I think there is this habit for us to be really disconnected between the idea of mutual aid,” she says. By remaining grounded in the values and priorities of a mutual aid organization, the community allows us to take space. We are invited to create something together and share that work together freely.
The People’s Kitchen and mutual aid are forever. This concept of “forever” has been the long basis of justice. “Forever” is not just a promise for tomorrow or the following day. These lessons shared from the People’s Kitchen all reflect on “forever” because the work and the people involved in the work intend to last. We intend to be more than a one–time service or a temporary fix. “Forever” means love. And it is love that can break the walls that separate us, and it is love that continues to keep us fed and full.
