Final Meals

“What’s your final meal?” For most of us it’s a hypothetical question, an ice breaker, a small-talk personality test. We’ll ruminate for a moment, sifting through a mental catalog of all the flavors and smells we’ve enjoyed in our lives, searching for that one perfect meal, just right for our final day on the planet.

For some, there’s no hesitation. They know exactly which meal speaks to them most, and more than likely it’s a dish they ate as a child, prepared by their mother or their grandmother. For me, my final meal would be pot roast and mashed potatoes as made by Grandma Coleman—accompanied by orange jell-o with carrot shavings, and a garden salad with buttermilk ranch dressing from a mason jar. It’s a no-brainer. That meal holds all the flavors of my childhood. Just the thought of it can bring me feelings of ease and safety.

For some, the question isn’t hypothetical. For some, it’s incredibly real. So what do people choose when they are faced with imminent death? It’s a morbid question, to be sure, but thanks to the Texas Department of Criminal Justice, we have an answer that can be heartbreaking, humorous, and profound.

The Death Row section of the TDCJ website lists once listed the last meal requests of people scheduled for execution. At first it’s merely a curiosity, the most interesting thing being how much food the prisoners have requested:

Six pieces of french toast with syrup, jelly, butter, six barbecued spare ribs, six pieces of well burned bacon, four scrambled eggs, five well cooked sausage patties, french fries with catsup, three slices of cheese, two pieces of yellow cake with chocolate fudge icing, and four cartons of milk

But as you read through the list of requested comfort foods, you begin to notice how many have declined their last meal, or requested intangible sustenance:

God’s saving grace, love, truth, peace and freedom

Then, it becomes very real. In all of this food you begin to see a host of memories and yearnings. There are mothers and grandmothers in this list. There are truck stops, and dives, and girlfriends, and homelands. When you realize how what we eat connects us to our world and who we are, the last meal request is almost like a prayer. But it’s less a communion with God than it is a communion with the environment that formed us. Like a prayer, it can be a confession or adoration or plea. Maybe “God’s Saving Grace” isn’t such a stretch when you’re looking for it in fillet mignon and pineapple upside down cake. At least you’re filled… If only physically.

And what about those who decline their meal? This is the saddest thing to me: that these men will leave a world that fed them, with only the taste of their own spit in their mouths.

I don’t care what your stance on the death sentence is—to be sure, these people have done some incredibly bad things, or been wrongly convicted for some incredibly bad things—but if there’s anything that can connect us to the fact of their humanity (for better or worse), it’s what they order when their days on the earth are numbered:

Chocolate birthday cake with “2/23/90” written on top, seven pink candles, one coconut, kiwi fruit juice, pineapple juice, one mango, grapes, lettuce, cottage cheese, peaches, one banana, one delicious apple, chef salad without meat and with thousand island dressing, fruit salad, cheese, and tomato slices

I think that whatever your stance, it’s important to be connected to the humanity of these people.

I don’t want to end this post with some kind of “treat every meal like it’s your last, because for some it really is” bullshit, because I know you’d roll your eyes and froth at the mouth.

But aside from just morbid fascination, I’d ask that you take a look at these last meals and just let it sink in a bit. Who knows, maybe you’ll get something out of it. Maybe you won’t.

All I know is that I’m calling Grandma Coleman and thanking her for all that pot roast while I’ve got the chance.

Links via FARK