The Best Meal I’ve Ever Had
Tony and I were working in the kitchen one day when we got an order for a last meal to be prepared the following day. We looked over the list and wrote a list of supplies for the chef to buy from the outside.
It was Tony’s first time making a last meal.
I gave him a quick rundown of how it worked and when we needed to have it done. He seemed very unsettled by the idea of it. I felt the same way the first time I did it too, but then I remembered it held more weight for him.
His being on death row meant one day I could be cooking his last meal. The realization washed over me and welled up in my chest. I felt compelled to say something to comfort him.
As usual, I was at a loss for words.
I didn’t want to bring up his impending doom so instead, I talked about how much care I put into cooking. How serious I took the process and how I say a quick prayer over the food before it leave the kitchen. I mentioned how I don’t know the inmate, or what they did, so I just focus on making food I would want to eat myself.
He nodded along but said nothing, he was too deep in thought.
The rest of the day went by as usual. Then we went over the prep list and supplies with the chef before returning to our cells.
That night I asked my cellmate, Carlos, about it, hoping his experience could ease my mind.
“How often do people get off death row?” “What do you mean?” “Sometimes people get off right? What’s it called, a stay?” “Yeah. Sometimes. Not often.”
I sat there and thought about Tony, how wrong it was he was in that position. He didn’t do anything wrong, and yet he’s going to die for someone else’s crime. And the real criminal is still on the streets.
It was hard to sleep that night but the next day I made sure to act normal so Tony didn’t worry too much.
We got to the kitchen and the supplies were all there. After we finished lunch for the general population we started the last meal.
We divided the tasks between the two of us. I did all the frying, catfish, chicken, and onion rings. Tony did the rest, coleslaw, pork and beans, and corn on the cob. The inmate also requested a pecan pie but the chef bought that from the store.
Although I was cooking the fish Tony gave me some pointers, he grew up eating catfish and knew the best way to bread and fry it. The day went by pretty smoothly, we were too busy to think about what this meal really meant.
When we finished everything we got it plated up and I showed him how to wrap it. First, we wrapped each plate in plastic then covered each tray with paper. After it was all assembled we bowed our heads and said a quick prayer.
I don’t normally pray before meals but for some reason, it felt like the right thing to do. A few minutes before 4 pm one of the guards came in and checked the food like usual.
After double-checking against the list he moved the trays to a cart and left the kitchen. There was never much discussion with the guards, they treated everyone well, but had no interest in making friends with us.
After he left we started to clean up for the day.
A few minutes later the guard returned with the cart, both trays still covered.
“Is everything ok?” I asked “He said he doesn’t want it, just wants a cigarette instead.”
He walked back out of the kitchen without saying another word.
Tony and I looked at each other, unsure what to do next. We uncovered the food, it was still hot and looked good, better than anything else we ate in here.
“You want to eat it?” I asked “Can we?” I shrugged “I won’t tell if you don’t,” I said with a smile.
We unwrapped all the food and started eating. While we ate Tony told me stories from his childhood of catching and eating catfish and how his mom would cook the best cornbread he’d ever had.
As we shared the meal we talked more about over lives and things we liked to do on the outside. I’ve always been more a listener than a talker so Tony told did most of the talking.
“One time my cousin and I were down at the creek fishing for catfish. It was hot and the fish weren’t biting. We decided to go to town and get some drinks from the store. When we were there my cousin saw some Cheetos on the shelf. We both love Cheetos but didn’t have enough money for them so he dared me to steal them.”
I chomped away ate the fried chicken, riveted by the story.
“I looked around and waited for the uncle who owned the shop to turn his back and I grabbed them and took off. Right as I was about to hit the door someone was walking in. A tall guy with a big belly. My face slammed right into his big round belly and I bounced off like a basketball.”
I laughed at the thought of him sprawled out on the floor clutching his bag of Cheetos.
“The big guy looked down at me, the old guy who owned the store looked over to see what happened. I didn’t know what to do so I just ran out with the bag and ran all the way down the street. My cousin met up with me and we were cracking up. Then we went back to the creek to eat the Cheetos but they were all smashed from the guy’s fat stomach. Still good though.”
We kept telling stories while finishing the food. It was the most normal I’d felt since getting locked up, it was nice to forget for a little.
We finished eating and cleaning and went back to our cells. I went to sleep that night in a completely different mood than I woke up.
I didn’t think it was possible but I made a friend in prison.
Thanks for reading, here are the other parts of the story.
