Let's Make. . .my Last Meal on Earth

I have been neglecting my poor little blog. My new computer and my camera can't seem to communicate so I have a back log of recipes and photos. I don't want it to look like my blog is abandoned. . .so I thought I'd share this little essay - inspired by the book My Last Supper by Melanie Dunea and sitting around a bonfire with friends talking about what our own last supper might be. . .

Well, if I know I am going to die and I am not freaking the hell out, then there is some sort of magic going on. In that case, I will believe the magic will encompass the whole day. My dream last day/meals on earth would go down like so:

I would wake up to the smell of fresh, hot buttermilk biscuits and bacon. My nana and uncle Earl would be in the kitchen talking about the day ahead and the chores that need to get done. I would watch my uncle break a biscuit in half, dab butter on a corner and take a bite. He would eat the biscuit like that as he always did; dabbing butter on each bite. I would break my biscuit in half, marveling at the flaky layers and spread it with butter and homemade peach jam made with peaches from my nana’s orchard. I would not take this communion for granted and realize how lucky I was to have such amazing things to eat each morning. I would then help my uncle make his dog’s food – broken up biscuits drizzled with hot bacon grease – a meal his sweet dog, Prissy, ate every day of her long life.

As the magic continues, I would then be in the kitchen of my abuelita’s house. . .I can hear the lilting tones of her, my aunt Julie and my aunt Petra speaking Spanish. The smell of chiles and warm, fresh masa hang in the air. I am peeling silk off soaked corn husks and making a pile that diminishes as each woman takes a corn husk, spreads a dollop of masa and fills it with tender pieces of pork and a green olive. They gossip and work, laughing and arguing as only sisters can. A giant steamer hums along on the stove, piled with plump, fat tamales. My abuelita plucks a tamale out of the steamer and makes me a plate, untying the ends of the tamale and opening it up, the vapor redolent of cumin and sesame seeds. She spoons a small lake of smooth and creamy refried beans. . .the best refried beans on the planet – the beans I dream of to this day. I eat. She asks me in her broken English, “Are you satisfied?” I grow sleepy and she tucks me in on the little couch in the corner of her kitchen, wrapping me up in a thick wool blanket that smells of life in the kitchen.

As the day closes out, I am on the back lawn of my sister’s house overlooking the Puget Sound. There is a long table with benches; it is covered with beautiful food. A giant bowl of Matt Colgan’s Bolognese with the half rigatoni that Phoenix no longer makes. A platter of cheeses, fresh baguettes and perfectly ripe summer fruit. A soup terrine filled with my abuelita’s simple vegetable soup with tiny albondigas floating in it. A bowl of chile verde with hot, thick freshly made corn tortillas and more of my abuelitas beans. Bannie’s fried chicken. A perfectly ripe watermelon from Spurlin and Jewel's patch. A peach cobbler made by my nana with freshly churned vanilla ice cream and a Red Earth Cake made by Bannie Faubion – the best baker I have ever known. A white Burgundy I had once at La Folie and have never forgotten. Cold, fresh whole milk with the creamy cap in thick glass bottles sitting in buckets of ice. On my lap is my most beloved cat, Mouse. I am feeding him pieces of pork from the chile verde. My darlings LouLou and Ferghal are at my feet, any and all pets that have come and gone are there. Everyone I have ever loved and who loved me back is there and we are sharing this magnificent feast. We are happy at our good fortune. As the sun fades on my last day and my loved ones walk away from the dining table, I walk down to the dock and watch the water. . . and slowly, peacefully fade away.