Knotty's post and my most recent blog, along with Becca's reply, have me thinking about last meals. Most of us -- and I suppose it's a good thing -- will not have the luxury of choosing a last meal. A "last meal" situation is usually a "death row" type of thing or, I suppose if you stretched your imagination a bit, maybe you could have been kidnapped by the mob or some other nefarious force who planned to off you but benevolently decided you should have your choice of culinary delights before your execution-style shooting, hanging, or whatever manner of death was chosen for you. (Isn't this a most uplifting conversational topic?)
For the most part, however, God or some prophet or doctor doesn't appear in front of you and say, "Guess what? You're dying in 90 minutes! Now what would you like to eat?" And even if it did happen that way, you probably wouldn't waste your remaining ninety minutes eating.
Actually, I think a death sort of happened in that way once on House, MD. And we all know that House, MD, bomb ass series though it might have been, was the ultimate
[ note:sarcasm font] realistic TV drama. House, MD was almost as true-to-life as any TV show featuring the Kardashians and Bruce Jenner. At least House, MD categorized itself as fiction, and the actors and writing were good.
|a still photo from the actual episode "Wilson's Heart"|
Anyway, Wilson's girlfriend, Amber -- the one House hated with a passion and called "Cuttthroat Bitch" throughout the reality series competition within the actual series that he held for the purpose of determining which doctors he would hire to replace Foreman, Chase, and Cameron on his team of fellows -- was dying of some ailment brought on by a bus wreck, I think. Wilson had the choice of letting her die in peace or using drugs to bring her out of her coma so that she could say goodbye to everyone. Of course he woke her up; where would the drama have been if he'd just let her quietly die?
Anyway, she stayed awake as long as she could, bidding both friends and enemies fond farewells, before spending her final moments embracing Wilson until she could maintain consciousness no longer. Then she drifted off into sleep and death. The point here is that at no point did anyone ask Cutthroat Bitch what she wanted to eat or even if she wanted a final meal. It's not a reality-based concept. It's just something some states (not all, apparently) offer their condemned prisoners, maybe to somehow make themselves feel better about what it is they're about to do to the person.
My dad suggested it also hydrates the person, making veins easier to access if lethal injection is the means of execution. My dad is a cynic, as am I. We look for ulterior motives everywhere.
Anyway, getting back to the topic at hand: what would be your choice of a last meal?
I told Becca that I would want four strips of crisp bacon, one very small chicken breast fried according to Bobby Flay's recipe, and one cherry-limeade from Sonic. If I could get one more thing down, it would be this: I would eat one teaspoon of vanilla butter cream frosting. My mom stopped asking me what kind of birthday cake I wanted a long time ago. She makes whatever cake Matthew wants, since we share a birthday. She either makes a batch or buys a can of white frosting - not that gawdawful whipped cream stuff, but real butter cream -- for me. Then everyone is happy.
|colloid of the Gods|
My mom can relate to my love of frosting because she likes
it, too. She likes sugary stuff in general. When she was pregnant, she took a glucose tolerance test in which she had to drink a bottle of really sugary drink, then have a blood test right after, then a few hours later. Most people practically gag when they drink the stuff, apparently, and have a tough time getting the fluid down. Some don't get it down. My mom asked for an extra bottle of the glucose tolerance test substance and wanted to know if there was a place where she could buy it or from which she could order it. We also eat brown sugar straight out of the box. Fortunately for both of us, our blood sugar readings are on the very low end of normal. If either of us ever developed diabetes in any form, we'd probably last a week at best.
|my mom's libation of choice except that she doesn't know where to buy it|
Anyway I've shared my ideal last meal with you. Tell me what yours is if you have the time. Respond in the comments section here, email me at firstname.lastname@example.org, or tweet me at
Alexis A. Rousseau @theangelalexis. I'm most curious as to what your answers might be.