The Day Cooking Took On A Whole New Meaning For Me
Once we got to jail one of the officers lead me into the main booking area. They asked me for my name and other basic information. From there, I was led into another room where they took my mugshot. First from the front, then from the side.
Next, I walked over to a table and was instructed to place my index finger on an ink pad and onto a small piece of paper. After getting my fingerprints I was moved to a main holding area with the other inmates.
We all just sat there. It wasn’t like what I expected, no angry menacing dudes were threading to beat me up, no crazed lunatics acting out. Just a bunch of bored pathetic people waiting for their time before the judge.
We sat there all night, at one point I found a place to lay down and got what little sleep I could.
The next morning I sat in court watching the others as they stood before the judge.
Finally, my time came, I was terrified and at the same time oddly relieved that I was finally going to get some clarity. I spent the whole night and all morning just thinking and wondering what would happen, I was about to find out.
“You’re being charged with possession of cannabis, and two counts of possession of a controlled substance. How do you plead?”
I didn’t know what to say so I said what I heard everyone else saying.
“No contest.”
“I sentence you to 24 months in state jail. Next”
I was whisked out of the courtroom and was given paperwork with my formal charges and the day I was to report to jail to begin my sentence.
The next few months went by in a blur and before I knew it it was time to report to jail.
Upon entering I was instructed to remove everything from my pockets and put it into a bag they gave me. I was then given an orange jumpsuit to wear while incarcerated. I was scared and unsure what would come next, but not as scared as I thought I would be.
Something about being there and actually going through the process made it easier, the fear of the unknown was way worse.
We were moved to a new area where we talked to a guard who was in charge of giving everyone jobs in jail.
“What was your job as a freeman?” “Uh, a cook,” I said meekly “What?”
He couldn’t hear me and seemed angry about it.
“A cook,” I said more confidently “Perfect, one of our cooks just got out yesterday. You’ll work in the kitchen.”
That didn’t seem too bad, cooking was something I knew how to do at least. I did my best to keep my head down and mind my business. I didn’t want any trouble.
I was a good kid who didn’t belong here, not some hardened criminal.
The first day I reported to the kitchen I met the head chef. He wasn’t an inmate, he was from the outside and would come in to oversee all the food production for the whole jail.
He was my new boss.
I was never one to question authority, but now the stakes were even higher, I didn’t want to think what would happen if I talked back now.
“Do you know how to cook?” He asked “Yes, I’ve worked in restaurants for the past five years.” “Good peel these potatoes, we need all 50 pounds peeled by 11 am.”
I got to work peeling while he started the rest of the food. The kitchen had large industrial appliances and the familiar smell of a school cafeteria. The gross, sad food I wouldn’t dare eat when I was a kid in school was now all that I could eat. There was other food you could buy from the jail store but I hadn’t earned that privilege yet.
The chef was stern and serious but didn’t seem any meaner than any other chef I’ve ever worked for.
We worked the whole day in silence except when he gave me directions on what to do next. It felt normal, I almost forgot I was in jail.
Once we were done cooking for the day we cleaned up and I returned to my cell.
My cellmate was an old Mexican guy with tattoos on his chest arms and back. His face was dry and chiseled, deep grooves from years of hard living behind bars.
We didn’t speak much for the first few days. He didn’t seem interested in talking to me and I was too scared to start a conversation with him.
On the third day while at work one of the guards came into the kitchen. He had a piece of paper he handed to the chef.
“We have an execution tomorrow, here is their last meal request.”
The chef took the paper without a word and began to read it over. I finally had to ask a question.
“Did he say last meal?”
The chef looked at me, seemingly surprised I finally said something.
“Yeah, we’re in charge of all the food here, including the last meal. We need to prepare this tomorrow, ill get all the ingredients together today.”
I was shocked.
I’d heard of prisoners on death row getting a last meal but it never occurred to me that we would be the ones to cook it.
Suddenly cooking took on a whole new meaning to me.
In the years I spent in restaurants we were always told to treat the guest right and cook everything perfectly so they would tell their friends and come back again. The whole idea was creating repeat customers.
But this was their last meal, the last thing they would ever eat.
I finished my work for the day and headed back to my cell, but the thought of the last meal never left me.
The next day I reported to work, the thought of the meal I had to cook was still heavy on my mind. When I got to the kitchen no one was there. On one of the prep tables was a small pile of ingredients with a note on top.
It was from the chef: I had an emergency, here are the ingredients for the last meal as well as the food you need to cook for the rest of the inmates.
I looked around as if it was a joke.
One of the guards came in, “Just a reminder we have an execution today. It’s at 6 pm so the food has to be ready by 4 pm.”
A wave of panic swept over my body.
“The chef isn’t here today, it’s just me.” “Well, you better get busy.”
With that, he walked back out, as the door closed behind him I was alone.
I looked at the list of food, steak with mushrooms and butter sauce, onion rings, French fries, cheesecake with strawberries on top, and two cokes. It seemed easy enough, I’ve cooked all these things before and the cheesecake was pre-made.
I set to work coking with as much care and passion as I could. Although I never met this person I didn’t want their last meal to suck.
When I was done I wrapped the food as I was instructed and left it on the counter.
A few minutes before 4 pm the guard returned and inspected the food to make sure it was all there. He then loaded it onto a cart and left without saying a word.
I finished the rest of my work and started to clean up. When I was almost done for the day the guard returned with the tray, empty plates, and utensils. He put them down in the dish area where I was cleaning and stopped for a second.
“He said he liked the food. He wanted me to give compliments to the chef.”
Before I had time to respond he turned and walked back out. I was dumbfounded I didn’t know what to say, but couldn’t help feel a little pride in knowing my cooking was appreciated.
The next day when I saw the chef I told him how it went and asked if I could be in charge of all the last meals from now on.
“Sure, that’s one less thing I have to worry about.”
We worked the rest of the day in silence like usual. Cooking was always something I had done to make money to pay my bills, now it had a meaning.
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