I always read news reports about prison executions. I skip right over the inevitable aspects of every story -- the condemned’s last words, how many veins the doctor had to try in order to locate one that could accommodate the IV drip, etc. – and go directly to what the guy ordered for his last meal.
Don’t know about you but I’ve thought a lot (or, if you’re
one of those idiots who, despite Spell Check, persists in spelling it “alot”)
about what I would request for mine. Here goes (in no particular order):
Kraft Dinner a la
Stern: I’m talking about the original blue vertical box with the skinny elbow
macaroni, not the fancy stuff in the yellow box. I’d instruct the prison chef to
prepare it using a trick from Jane and Michael Stern’s Square Meals: Open two boxes, throw away the macaroni from one of
them, prepare the noodles from the remaining box according to package
directions, drain, then stir the foil packets containing the powdered “cheese” from
both boxes into the noodles, along
with twice the butter and half the milk the recipe calls for. I’d then ask him to
add two cans of Bumble Bee oil-packed tuna to the mixture. The ultimate comfort
food for that long walk down the green mile.
Jet’s Pizza: I
always have to share so, for once, it’d be nice to have my own entire pie from
Jet’s, a Detroit-based chain that has two storefronts (delivery and pick-up
only) near my Florida home. The crust is nothing special but the sauce,
that incredible sauce, is beyond description. It’s tomato-y and sweet, infused
with herbs and spices that leave you drooling like a rabid raccoon. Realistically,
I’d lick the sauce off, and leave the crust because I’d need room for …
Ravioli d’Oro: In 2011, in Buenos Aires, my wife and I
stumbled upon d’Oro, a hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant near the Casa Rosada.
We walked out two hours later in a state of stupefaction, knowing we had just eaten
the best meal of our lives. Specifically, handmade ravioli stuffed with Argentine
grain-fed beef tenderloin, in a Malbec wine sauce. We discovered d’Oro on Friday
and returned on Saturday. And Sunday. Monday, alas, it was closed. I wonder if
the warden would fly the chef up? If the state refuses to pay his travel
expenses, would my faithful readers chip in? Hope so.
Pearl’s peanut
brittle: Pearl Houchins was a little old lady and secretary/ treasurer of
the Methodist Church in the one-stoplight Missouri town where I grew up. Every
Christmas, she made candy for goodie bags that were passed out to the children
of the church. She could have been a billionaire had she been willing to sell
her recipes, which included an ethereally crispy, lighter-than-air peanut
brittle, to Nestle, Mars or Cadbury-Schweppes. But, to the eternal regret of those
who knew only that she used hand-churned butter and fresh cream from local
farmers, she took her recipes with her to heaven. No prison chef can possibly duplicate
her version, so all I’ll ask is that the warden have the head honcho from Mrs.
See’s Candies in Carson, Calif., which sells a decent peanut brittle, make mine
using hand-churned butter from zip code 65231. Seems entirely reasonable, no?
Saganaki: As
newlyweds we lived in Chicago where, every Saturday night, we hightailed it to
Greek Town, a two-block long row of restaurants west of the Loop. The best,
hands-down, was (and still is) the Parthenon, where diners waited in line up to
three hours. It was worth it for a single bite of the signature appetizer the
Parthenon claims to have invented – saganaki, a slab of kasseri cheese, dredged
in a secret coating and brought to the table in a cast iron skillet by a waiter
who doused it with brandy, lit it with a lighter that caused the entire skillet
to explode in flame, then extinguished the fire with the juice of a lemon as
the crowd yelled, “Oopa!” I lie awake nights worrying about this particular request because I doubt the warden will
allow the chef to light the dish in my presence lest I catch fire and deprive
the state of the pleasure of frying my ass.
My wife’s Chicken Parmigiana: OK, she uses
Prego®, but who cares? Her version of the Italian classic is awesome, better
than anything Giada, Lidia or any of those Italian TV chefs could conjure up.
She might be sad as she prepares it but she’ll take comfort knowing she’ll soon
be rich from the life insurance payout (provided I’m executed no later than Nov.
16, 2021, when the policy expires).
Stouffer’s Chipped
Beef: My favorite “home alone” dish before my unfortunate incarceration, I’d
instruct the chef to serve it over Pepperidge Farm Sourdough toast, topped by
two slices of Velveeta that melt when they come in contact with the bubbling
cream sauce. I’d also request a mill of fresh pepper to grind liberally over
the entire plate.
Ruby’s light rolls:
For years her grandchildren have been asking my mother, Ruby, to teach them how
to make her famous light rolls. After trying unsuccessfully to replicate the
results of her written recipe, from which she always deviates, my niece made a
video as she sifted, stirred and kneaded. But they’ve all given up. Mom will
say, for instance, “Stir in, oh, about a half a coffee cup full of flour” then,
when you do, she’ll say you probably ought to add a tad more because the yeast
doesn’t seem all that active, as if anyone born after the Harding
administration knows active yeast from passive yeast. How much more? “Depends
on whether the bubbles are big or small.” Annoying, but I can’t be too angry considering
I’ve eaten, probably, 50,000 of her rolls. If any of my readers would be so
kind as to send a jar of homemade damson preserves to slather them with, I’d ‘preciate
it.
Blondies from the
corner deli: When we lived in New York B.C., there was a deli on the corner
of 49th and Second that sold blondies so rich it took an hour to consume
one 3” x 3” x 1” square. Imagine a slice of gooey butter cake studded with semi-sweet
chocolate morsels and you’ll have a rough idea of what I’m talking about here. A full bite would have sent anyone into a sugar-
and butter-induced nirvana from which there could have been no return. The only
possible way to eat one was to break off a fingernail-sized piece, suck out the
butter, then let the rest melt in your mouth. The blondies were made in someone’s
apartment kitchen in Queens, and delivered every evening around 8. Sometimes
they were still warm. Next to the twin towers, those blondies are what I miss
most about New York. I’m sure Bloomberg has outlawed them by now.
Lottie Gasper’s Fried
Chicken: During my college summers,
I worked the night shift at Gasper’s Truck Stop in Kingdom City, Mo., where, for
$2.99, truckers received a breast, drumstick and wing of the world’s crispiest
fried chicken, accompanied by mashed potatoes, white cream gravy with flecks of
crust from the skillet in which the chicken was fried, and canned green beans,
served up on a plate festooned with a ring of candied crabapple and a piece of
lettuce. I ate it at 4:30 every morning
for four straight summers and it’s probably the reason I have to take Lipitor
today. Gasper’s, alas is gone but surely someone who worked in the kitchen
knows Miz Lottie’s recipe. Anyone? I’ll let you know the address of the prison
warden to send it to.
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