Michael McKinlay, stout, determined, his keen mind teeming with ideas and fueled by outrage, marches purposefully down a long row of recycling bins outside a grocery store somewhere in Toronto’s west end, in the waning hours of a bitter cold winter night.
Don’t publicly name the locations. That’s the first rule of the growing corps of dumpster divers in Toronto, although a new term is emerging — food rescuers. They forage in bins for discarded food, for their own consumption and to bring to others who, like them, are increasingly unable to afford the high cost of groceries in an inflationary economy.
Later in the night, McKinlay will drop the food he’s collected on a table tucked under a church alcove, keeping a package of portobello mushrooms and a domed tray of salsa and taco chips that expired — a technicality to McKinlay — less than 24 hours before.
Passersby are welcome to help themselves. Long before dawn the food will be gone, collected in dribs and drabs by people who need it.
McKinlay is a food rescuer, a modern-day Robin Hood, trading in wilted lettuce, firm potatoes and newly expired packaged goods that couldn’t sell for 50 per cent off in the bright, expansive aisles of the spotless grocery store that just closed for the night, where a clerk scooped unsold roasted chicken parts out from under heat lamps into an enormous, see-through garbage bag.
Out back, a tall refrigeration truck and a trash compactor, both affixed to the rear wall of the store, create a dim, narrow aisle for a different consumer. On a good night, the organics bins leaning against the truck are full of prepared meals past their best-before dates, and loose and packaged produce.
McKinlay lightly lifts and drops each of the bins by their handles on his rapid reconnaissance walk down the aisle. The bins land hollowly, snow wisping from the lids. Empty. The roasted chicken has gone straight into the trash compactor, where it cannot be reclaimed.
Two bins, closer to the back steps of the door, are full of expired packaged salads, prepared foods and loose but perfect-looking potatoes.
McKinlay and his neighbour, a Toronto artist whose works hang for sale in a New York City gallery, hold each treasure up to the light — the little bit of wilting, the soggy parts, which made the products unfit for full-price or even bargain shoppers, do not deter them. Those bits can easily be cut off, the rest of the broccoli, okra, carrots, frozen or blanched for future use. The potatoes look like those you’d find at full price in a grocery store.
Michael McKinlay wants to feed as many people as he can and persuade grocers to adopt practices he believes would save more food.
McKinlay says he has a food safety training certificate and keeps abreast of food recalls.
McKinlay belongs to the Facebook group Dumpster Diving Network of Toronto, where some of the nearly 8,000 members post pictures of hauls, or requests for food.
“We are so tapped we look like faucets,” writes one member.
They post about corporate greed, sharing gas and what they see as an epidemic of food waste.
Some are looking for partners to dive with, for practical reasons or because of loneliness.
“I thought it’d be nice if I could reach out, or maybe make a friend or two,” says a seasonally unemployed labourer who is a new member.
Founder Chantal Townsend says the group is six years old and, until about two months ago, was sitting at around 4,000 members.
“The most common answer we get to the question of ‘why do you want to join this network?’ is ‘too broke to afford food,’” says Townsend.
There are numerous other Facebook sites dedicated to the practice, including Dumpster Share Toronto, Dumpster Diving in Canada EH!!! and Dumpster Diving Ontario.
On TikTok, TorontoTrashPanda has built a following of 3,500 by posting videos in which she searches dumpsters for treasures. Her finds have ranged from backpacks to make-up, but mostly food, which she uses to stock the Bloor by the Park Community Pantry and give to neighbours in need.
She did not respond to an e-mail request for an interview.
“I think more and more people are getting into it because of social media,” says Shane Ironmonger, 19, who was inspired in part by TorontoTrashPanda. He and a partner go out about twice a week with a wagon and a two-step ladder. They won’t go through the organics bins, but they will climb into dumpsters — with great caution, and never alone.
“Because we don’t have jobs, we put a lot into it,” says Ironmonger, who likes to donate what he can’t use — mostly to homeless LGBTQ+ youth. He finds a lot of bread and boxes of cereal.
Occasionally he sells items for TTC fare or to buy gas. He has no problem with people selling things rescued from the trash — it takes a lot of effort to dig things out.
He says he’d been thinking about dumpster diving even before he lost his job, and now that he’s built up expertise, will continue to do it, because of how much it helps others and how much stuff he’s able to divert from landfill.
“I like thinking about how many people or families the stuff we’ve saved can go to,” says Ironmonger.
There are private Facebook pages where rescuers post items for free or for sale. On one such site, Knorr noodle cups run $5 for eight; 500-gram packages of bacon, expired for a week, recently sold out at two for $3; 14 pairs of adult disposable briefs go for $6.
McKinlay is not a reseller. He’s out to feed as many people as he can and hopefully persuade Canada’s grocers to adopt practices he believes would save more food.
Grocery chains say they are already deeply engaged in programs to save food and divert waste.
Metro spokesperson Stephanie Bonk says their stores flash-freeze food that is about to expire, and keep it in freezers until it can be picked up by local food banks.
“Metro’s ambition is to ensure that food that is safe for consumption is not thrown away,” says Bonk.
“Our objective is to reduce food waste in our activities by 50 per cent by 2025, compared to 2016.”
McKinlay, 54, has been thinking about the value of garbage for a long time.
One of his earliest memories is of his mother giving him LEGO bricks she had rescued from the trash. The LEGO sparked in him a lifelong interest in creation and design. What he didn’t realize was how much where the LEGO came from would affect his future.
“My whole life I heard the words: ‘I pulled them from the garbage,’” says McKinlay, who was working in food delivery when he had a heart attack in March 2022. He required surgery and was told he’d have to change his diet to include fresh produce.
He couldn’t afford it.
“I haven’t been having an easy time getting back to work, so I’ve been almost relying on dumpster diving for the vegetables side of food. There’s no way I can afford $4-per-head cauliflower,” says McKinlay, who is currently living on social assistance.
He brings some produce home, and what he doesn’t use right away he blanches and freezes. He says he’s never eaten so healthily.
On a good night, organics bins behind stores can contain prepared meals and loose and packaged produce.
McKinlay’s neighbour got into the practice a few years ago when he was living in New York City.
“It was crazy. Compared to here, it’s really next-level there,” says the artist, who the Star is not naming to protect his privacy. He and his friends scored leftovers from French bakeries, including prepared sandwiches made with premium ingredients.
“If I have a decent amount of money, I won’t do it. I got back into it recently because things have been really tight,” he says.
“I went to a food bank, and the one near me, they make you wait outside. There was a woman there who was very short with me … and she doesn’t know anything about me.”
The artist says he goes through periods where he’ll make $5,000 in a day, followed by long periods where nothing is happening.
“I don’t go do this stuff unless it’s somewhat of a necessity, but it’s a bit addictive, too,” he says.
It takes McKinlay and his neighbour 15 minutes to fill half a dozen crates with expired bagged salads and lettuce at their first stop, then it’s on to a second location, a seven-minute drive away. McKinlay drives an old Honda van — a gift, he says.
The organics bins at the second location smell like overripe fruit salad. The men push aside pineapple hulls and pull out half a dozen bouquets of wilted roses. It’s Feb. 15.
In an alcove at the Celestial Church of Christ on Dundas Street West, there’s a table where rescued food is set out for people who need it.
They wear rubber gloves and work quickly, wrapping things up in less than 10 minutes, before driving 10 more minutes to the Celestial Church of Christ at 3339 Dundas St. W.
They quickly fill the outdoor table — McKinlay likes to stack it attractively — the way you would find it in a grocery store, tall packages at the back, smaller ones in front. He stands back to admire his work.
It will all be gone by morning, says Rev. Adekunle Lawal. The church has been using the table since about 2019. Most of the people clearing it out overnight are homeless, on bikes, with grocery carts or wagons. They can’t or don’t want to deal with any bureaucracy, even if it’s just filling out an intake card at a food bank. The church refills the table, using supplies it has obtained from donations and partners like Second Harvest, a food recovery network.
Lawal says the experience of providing food this way has been deeply moving. One man, he says, always tried to pay something for what he took, by slipping what coins he had into the church’s mailbox.
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