Blessed are the Hungry

Fives loaves of bread can feed five thousand, but it may get you in trouble with the authorities.  It's the authorities that make the rules.

It's a strange crime to be accused of feeding the hungry and blessing the poor, but one man was crucified for it.

Who needs caviar and champagne in a world were throngs of people crowd supply trucks in ravaged cities, the detonated bombs still smoking, stretchin life and limb for stale bread that sat on trucks near war borders, waiting for one man to let the trucks roll.

Can I have a double expresso latte light with a dash of cinnamon while we wait for the trucks to roll?

My mom's love language was food, not for herself but for others.  She would make a plate every night for the elderly neighbor who lost her husband recently. She would cook whatever your heart's desired on your birthday, no matter how outrageous.  I always wanted potato pancakes and homemade apple sauce.

Now I just want justice, but the ingredients are never available.

There's a child in a war hospital with sunken cheeks, too dehydrated to cry, but I know he's crying.  I can see his haunted eyes.  He's hoping if he can't get a scrap of bread, he can get some sympathy.

I heard Irish men, women and children were forced to eat grass during the potato famine in 1840.  Their teeth glazed in green fibers, blades stuck between each tooth.  I picture people on hands and knees like grazing cattle, while the cattle somewhere watch with confusion.

I'm watching with confusion too.  How long does it take to make a latte these days?