LAST SUPPER

LAST SUPPER

The piece of paper in my hands with the recipe I had decided on-- torn long ago from my grandmother’s Betty Crocker Cookbook --was a bit yellowed, It felt fragile, and it even gave off an old timey kitchen-y smell...faintly aromatic of what? Bread flour out of an old wooden bin? Melting butter? Yeast rising? Maybe my imagination was just running away from me. This would not be a day like any other in the kitchen.

I read the instructions and the list of ingredients again. For the third time. Could I make it? Despite all the mac and cheeses, lasagnas and tuna melts I had made throughout my life, this time it was different. This occasion was different and that is why this recipe had to be different. Would he like it? Would he hate it?? What if he refused to touch it? No, I couldn’t have that happen. I was really really nervous. My recipe- holding hand was trembling. And that’s no way for a cook to approach a recipe, an important recipe, a critically important life and death kind of recipe!

When the final days are finally here, you want what may be someone’s last supper (or even last to the last supper) to be, well, special. Not everyday special but memorably historically special. . At least I wanted this dish to feel like that for me, if not (under the circumstances) not entirely like that for him. I wanted this treat to be Heavenly excellent. Does that sound too over the top or inappropriate?

I didn’t care. I knew what needed to be done for me to be alright. To be alright afterwards.

First, this couldn’t be just any old meatloaf, franks or sugar cooky kind of a treat. Nothing contemporary, nothing offhanded, not something yanked off the internet, where recipes go to die

No, this meal needed to be special, different, and historic in a sense. That’s what this paper in my hand seemed to promise. It was obviously one of my grandmother’s favorites, back in the housewifey 1950’s.. The corners were torn and there were some in decipherable handwritten notes in the margin. Handwritten in pencil. I felt sad and excited at the same time. I could tell that other dust- floured hands had held it like I was doing at this very moment. But for different reasons. Happier reasons probably. I knew in my bones that it had been used in other kitchens over and over for all kinds of reasons just like I was about to use it. I liked that. It held some promise of success. And this recipe could not fail. There would not be another chance. There would be no possibility for a do-over for me. This was a one-and-done occasion.

What about the ingredients? I had read through the list several times already. Were these ingredients that would pass his taste test?? I read through the recipe again. Blueberries, pineapple. Yes, I remembered the time at that summer picnic when Aunt El brought her blueberry pineapple jam. He ate it by the spoonful. And then he ate it smeared on crackers. Other ingredients -- eggs, and butter, yes, and whole-wheat flour, sure .And some spices. Pretty straightforward. Maybe too straightforward. Did it need a kick from some secret ingredient that he loved? No, no. I couldn’t risk ruining the recipe. There was no time to start over again.

I closed my eyes and read the instructions again. Then, I turned on the oven and imagined all the preparations step by step. I could almost smell the finished product (to be) in my mind before it was even mixed and shaped and baked. Yes, I would be shaping it into little breadstick shapes, perhaps or patties and…well, not many. This would be a small quantity. Because it was just for him, there would be no coming back for seconds. Not this time.

Spices made me think of the gingerbread cookies I made that Christmas Eve that we both ate sitting on the floor in front of the Yule tree, waiting for time to open the gifts. It was only 4 years ago but now it seem ages ago. He got so excited about the gift opening even though he didn’t do any of the opening. There would not be any Christmas this year for him.

And then there was that big family Thanksgiving dinner last year. Aunts and uncles from all over the Midwest and cousins I forgot I even had at the table.…. It was crazy. The turkey got burned but there with those little crunchy cornbread squares of Aunt Kendra’s that he loved. Maybe I should have made those today instead?. No, that wouldn’t be the right dish for right now, for this day, on this occasion.His holidays were over. Unless there is such a thing as reincarnation. Is there? Does anyone know for sure?

What was I trying to say with this recipe? I love you, Gallagher? Goodbye, my friend? I’ll never forget you? You will always be in my heart? Yes, all of those things. Now, I felt like bawling not baking. But there would be time for that later.

The oven was heating up; I had the bowl out and all the dry and wet ingredients ready. All I had to do really was mix and knead and cut and bake.

I went in and gave him a hug and a kiss and told him about tis treat, this final treat.

“No, Gallagher, don’t try to get up. I’m coming to you. And the surprise biscuits are coming, hot and crunchy in a minute. We’ll eat them together. Just like we used to do.

“And then we’ll take that ride in the car. I’ll leave the window open so you can smell the spring breezes one more time. “

The vet was close by. The ride was short. The dog biscuits –he could only eat one--had been good as a last supper.

I could go home now and cry.

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