Food Not Bombs in Arcata, Eureka and a radical mission to feed people
A dozen people gather under and around a pop-up tent at the center of the Arcata Plaza, some shifting on their feet, others sitting on the curb. Behind them, a sign reading “Food Not Bombs,” painted on the back of a coastal cleanup banner, hangs between bare trees. At 4:30 p.m., tables haven’t arrived yet for the regular 4 p.m. Sunday meal but volunteers have started shuttling over boxes of produce, a bag of pastries and a metal steamtable bin of foil-wrapped burritos and tacos.
“I can’t attest to us being on time all the time,” says a volunteer in a pink tie-dyed headscarf who goes by Turnip.
On a count of three, they and the rest of the volunteers bellow, “Free food!”
Growing out of 1980s protests against nuclear power, Food Not Bombs has evolved into an international volunteer network with anti-war, anarchist principles and a mission to take direct action feeding people vegetarian or vegan food that might otherwise be wasted. Its website asks, “When a billion people go hungry each day, how can we spend another dollar on war?” It also lists some 500 chapters, though all operate independently — there is no central structure or hierarchy, and no application.
The Arcata chapter of Food Not Bombs has been active since the 1990s, but for a hiatus during the height of COVID. Newer on the scene is the group serving food near the Bayshore Mall in Eureka for the past nine months. The two source ingredients and cook differently (vegan and omnivorous), despite sharing some volunteers, but they work according to the same egalitarian politics and unconditional generosity, sharing meals with anyone who wants to eat.
“The food is made by people who wanted to make it and it’s for everyone,” says Turnip, explaining how volunteers pick up shifts on a sprawling Signal chat. Work includes gathering unsold produce from grocers like Murphy’s Market and the North Coast Co-op, prepping and cooking, or setting up and distributing at the “serve.”
As the tables are unfolded, someone brings by a stack of takeout boxes of lasagna; another person asks if she can drop off a tub of cookies and does. To the side of the tent, a volunteer pulls apart a bundle of thick socks to offer people once they’ve gotten their food.
As they hand out the food, Anchor, in a medical mask and scarf, accepts thanks with a nod. “With EBT cuts, there’s definitely been a change,” they say. “There’s more and more hungry people,” including families and housed people.
“I’ve never seen this many people on the street displaced,” says Alex, who has been volunteering for about six months. He saw Food Not Bombs on the Cal Poly Humboldt campus during the April 2024 protests over Gaza. “I thought, ‘Those guys are rock ‘n’ roll, and I gotta join that.’” But he held off until he got his citizenship, he says, concerned his status as an immigrant would be in peril if the police interfered.
While police haven’t bothered Arcata Food Not Bombs in years, it was only in October of 2025 that Senate Bill 634 became law, barring municipalities from fining or arresting people for aiding homeless people with services or supplies, even in an illegal encampment.
Mira, whose glasses sit atop a paper mask, just started coming to the Sunday serves. “I’ve seen it my whole life and I’ve wanted to, but the SNAP thing in November made me get up and do it,” she says. “A good thing about the world burning is that it pushes you to action.” She says she began by coming by with food, like extra squash, then started eating with the group, discovering a connection her soul had been missing, enjoying the occasional music and the company of people who share her values and sense of humor.
The big bowl of guacamole presents a logistical challenge until someone fetches a spoon and soon people are scooping it into the steaming foil cupped in their hands.
Brendan, who’s come for a meal, says, “There’s a real effort to freeze or starve people out of this community.” He says he used to live in the Arcata Community Forest, though now he’s got a place in town. He grouses about the use of unsellable produce a bit but admits the weekly service is a boon. “If you’re out in the elements, you need good food.”
A steady stream of people thank the volunteers and step away to unwrap the bundles and eat alone or in small clusters. Some come back to compliment the food. A woman tries a donated “chocolate potato” (a tuber in shape only) and declares with a little hop, “This thing is amazing!”
Along with Food Not Bombs’ stance against both human and animal exploitation, vegan food allows them to avoid the food handling risks of meat, says Turnip, and “make sure everyone can eat the food,” which is cooked in private homes “that are cool enough to let us rotate through every couple weeks.” While anyone can show up and lend a hand at a serve, joining the kitchen crew takes a bit of time.
One of today’s five cooks (who prefers not to give her name) says they spent three and a half hours preparing the rice, seasoned potatoes, refried beans, mushrooms, onions and peppers, and wrapping them in whole wheat tortillas. Typically, she explains, the menu is comprised of soup, salad, rice and vegetables without meat, dairy or gluten, but burritos often come out in cold weather. She’s been cooking for Food Not Bombs for a few months but has some food service experience that’s come in handy. “I’m very much a food person,” she says.
Asked if anarchy can work in a kitchen, she lets out a groan that morphs into a laugh and grumbles that other anarchists are likely to disagree with her answer. “Anarchy is about rejecting hierarchies that don’t justify themselves,” she says, but at some point, on a ship — or in a kitchen — someone has to make a decision. Still, “Everything is a conversation,” even if sometimes, she jokes, “We really need a kitchen Stalin.”
One of the founders of the Bayshore Food Not Bombs chapter goes by R. Chaos. Originally from the Bay Area, he first came to Humboldt to attend College of the Redwoods. He and his wife returned three years ago and in the spring, he and a volunteer who’s since left started the group.
“Just got the idea in my head that something needed to be done because of national politics,” says Chaos, who “reached out to a couple people, some that I didn’t even know and just got started.” In the nine months since, he’s seen the clientele jump from 25 to 50 some days, with more housed and employed folks showing up, more people who are a paycheck away from being on the street.
“Everyone does this to be kind and because it’s the right thing to do,” he says. “There’s no leader per se; we’re primarily a group of anarchists and leftists … no one’s in charge. We’re just out here doing what we can for our community.” A number of the volunteers have been homeless themselves and know “what a meal means to you.”
That includes Chaos himself. “I was homeless for two years in San Diego and Washington State,” he says. “It’s not fun. You’re under a constant state of fight or flight, you don’t ever feel safe.” Once, when he and his wife were camping, “Cops came and shredded our tent with their cop knives and threw ’em in the dumpsters.” As hard as it was to get medical care, much less with any continuity, “Up here in Humboldt, it’s a billion times worse,” he says, adding that volunteers have helped a couple people get to a hospital. “It’s not a life anyone wants to live,” between the hardships and stigma. “I can count on one hand people who said, ‘Yeah, I choose to be out here.’”
He tries not to engage in any blowback he sees online and thinks people who are against feeding hungry people should try helping folks to learn something about humanity. “Yeah, damn right I’m helping the homeless,” he says. “All my friends are.”
By 4 p.m. on Monday, when the Eureka group serves food every week, the wind had picked up to finger-stiffening cold along Bayshore Way. Volunteers hugged in greeting on the roadside and pulled tables, water, snacks and steamtable bins of food from a car trunk, before carefully lighting cans of Sterno.
Unlike the Arcata group’s rotating kitchens and market-donated ingredients, the Eureka volunteers cook in their own homes using food and funds donated at drives, protests and through a GoFundMe account, as well as out of their own pockets. “People need to eat,” says Chaos, “and if we can make someone feel better or go to bed with a full belly, it’s worth it.”
They also decided to serve animal protein, partly due to the cold weather and to suit the appetites of people who came to eat. The Thanksgiving meal included roasted turkey, and some days large pots of meat chili are polished off. This week, Chaos used a hunk of venison his mother gave him to fix a pasta with red meat sauce. “I’ve never cooked venison before,” he says, grinning. “It came out great, so rich.”
Blake, who recently moved back to Humboldt after living in Mendocino County, was looking to join a mutual aid group when he found the Eureka Food Not Bombs. “It just seems like everyone is going to need this,” he says, noting the rising cost of food and the flatlining of incomes. He recently brought a mushroom stew, and his garage serves as a storage facility with shelves of bulk canned goods and a dedicated meat freezer. A vegetarian for 30 years, he’s comfortable cooking meat, too, having done so in the food service industry. Offering meat isn’t an issue for him, despite the original tenets of Food Not Bombs. “Mutual aid has to be focused on the community, not the organization,” he says. Letting the organization respond to needs of the community “is more compassionate.”
Volunteers swat down the foil over trays of spicy mac and cheese and pasta when wind blows them back. Julia Grosby brought a foil pan of squash and black bean enchiladas. “I make it a point to make a whole special dish for this,” she says. She started using the extras from her summer CSA box. She tries to keep it vegetarian and always with some protein. “For Christmas, I think I cooked 30 pounds of meat,” she says, smiling and pulling the hood of her sweatshirt close. “It seems like so much goes to waste in our society and I have the skillset to do something with it.”
“The mac and cheese last time I got from you guys was bomb,” says a woman in a green hoodie as a volunteer fills a paper takeout tray and tops it with a donated freshly baked roll. She’s been coming by for meals for a few months and says, “The food is great, and they always have things you need.” She has a place to stay at the motel where she works but appreciates the Food Not Bombs offerings and tells everyone about it.
At her feet, beside the leftover produce from yesterday’s distribution in Arcata, are a pair of boots, blankets, handwarmers and shirts spread on a cloth. Hygiene packs with toothpaste, bandages, ointment, mouthwash, wet wipes, razors and tampons are on offer, too. Over the holidays, the team gave away 50 gift bags stuffed with similar supplies as well as socks and beanies. Ziploc bags of dog food are snapped up, brought along by the same man who sometimes administers vaccinations to dogs on site.
Well-attended protests at the Humboldt County Courthouse over the warmer months could bring in $200-$300 in donations, plus rice and beans in bulk bags, says Chaos. “Now we’re kind of in a situation,” he says, “where we need help to get through the winter, so we started a GoFundMe.”
Turnip helps at the Eureka serves, too, and joins the assembly line packing takeout containers with the last of the food as the sky turns pink. Everyone teases Blake at the end of the line, giggling and rushing him to close the boxes faster.
Along with necessities, Turnip says, “It’s your time to socialize, eat and come together and talk, to break down the division between haves and have nots.” More formal organizations with hierarchies have their virtues, they say, noting “that does help with higher capacity. … Food for People is also doing great things,” as are other organizations.
Asked about the numerous LGBTQ+ members and volunteers with visible disabilities in both Arcata and Eureka, Turnip opens their mouth to speak when another volunteer throws double finger guns and cheers, “Intersectionality!”
Turnip chuckles in agreement, acknowledging sometimes, due to religious affiliation, requirements or institutional scale, some organizations may not reach LGBTQ+ people or those with disabilities — whether as volunteers or recipients — who may not always feel welcome. Food Not Bombs, they say, tries “not to lock anyone out.” People who have experienced bias or judgement over their identity or mobility, they say, may be more likely to volunteer or get aid from “a group that explicitly does not care about that.”
Chaos, who has a serious back injury, lowers himself into a folding chair at his wife’s urging, the bones tattooed on the backs of his hands showing as he fists them in the cold.
“Even though we are a bunch of punk rock leftists, everyone is welcome,” says Chaos. “We feed everybody — we don’t care if you come with a red MAGA hat. … We’re there to provide basic human needs.”
He says, “From your hand to their hand, it’s the most simplest thing that’s been forever. It’s about stuff everyone deserves to have no matter what their socioeconomic status is. You don’t have to be homeless to get some food. Come get some food.”
Jennifer Fumiko Cahill (she/her) is the managing editor at the Journal. Reach her at (707) 442-1400 ext. 106, or jennifer@northcoastjournal.com. Follow her on Bluesky @jfumikocahill.bsky.social.
This article appears in Free Food!.