It may or may not be from The Green Mile, but an old scene haunts my memory. A death row inmate from Yazoo City, Mississippi wakes on execution morning. (Or, was he imprisoned at the Yazoo City, Mississippi prison?) He partakes of his last meal. That last meal includes a Moon Pie. Maybe a bottle of Coke as well, but he undoubtedly requests a Moon Pie. Dad and I always thought that was pretty cool.
Maybe my memory wove together clips to form the aforementioned scene, but the phrase “Yazoo City, Mississippi,” the notion of a known last meal, and the selection of a Moon Pie fascinates.
Regardless, my point is last meals and I’ve had many last meals.
Really, I’ve had enough last Cokes to stack clear to the Moon. The family lost count years ago of how many times I’ve declared: “Now this will be my last Coke until this day next year.”
On Monday night, Zach and I ate our last meal. It was Pad Thai at my favorite downtown Montgomery restaurant. I ate more than usual and even ate dessert. I savored every sugary, creamy sensation of that cheesecake slice. On Tuesday, we started a Paleo Challenge.
I’ll admit I’ve looked forward to this challenge for sometime now. We bought recipe books, I purchased healthy food, and I even tested a recipe ahead of time. On Tuesday morning, I frantically fried an egg, washed a few strawberries, made nasty coffee that sat too long and cooled, and raced off to MOPS.
The kind MOPS ladies offered me snacks – trays of monkey bread, trays of cinnamon roles. As a kind lady spoke to us about spiritual disciplines, I eyed a tremendous tease abandoned on the neighboring table: a glazed doughnut hole stacked on top of a glazed doughnut sitting on top of a paper plate. The cartoon image of a doughnut was printed on the pink paper plates.
I wish that was a joke. But it’s true. Every detail.
Thirty minutes after a grilled chicken and green salad lunch, I stopped at Starbucks to celebrate my twenty-first Christian birthday with an iced vanilla latte (blonde espresso, please) and a slice of lemon pound cake. It’s tradition, after all.
I’m on day three and it’s tough. It’s worth it, but it’s tough. I’ll survive and just as I planned that limey, salty last meal, I’ll plan that first meal back into the modern world.
Which brings me to our question of the week:
What is your favorite meal?
(It seems less morbid than, “if you could choose your last meal, what would it be?”)
Photos: the day two “take two” breakfast; Abigail and I shop healthy