My Last Meal

“If you knew it was your last meal, what would you eat? Who would cook it? What would you drink, who would be around the table with you, if you knew it was your very last meal?”

-Shauna Niequist, Bread and Wine

Have you ever answered these questions? They require some serious thought, at least for me, a self-proclaimed “foodie.” I say this because I was once asked what the best money I ever spent was and I immediately thought of the salted peanut butter cookies I purchased at a coffee house… one time, four years ago. I still wouldn’t retract my answer. That’s how much I love food, and well, peanut butter to be more specific… and flaked sea salt, which makes EVERYTHING better. But every time I think about how to answer the question about my last meal, my menu keeps changing. There are just too many favorites to choose from. Being who I am though, I know I’d have to pick a theme. I couldn’t just throw a bunch of random foods on a spread and clash flavors like a complete psychopath. Perhaps I’d go with fish tacos, fresh guacamole, and an ice-cold margarita from my favorite Tucson dive. Maybe I’d go with a sort of comfort food from my childhood; toasted English muffins slathered in peanut butter, drizzled in honey, and topped with slices of bacon. (Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it.) Or maybe I’d go with an elaborate charcuterie board and a chilled glass of sangria. The more I think about it the more confused (and hungry) I get. As far as who I’d share it with? Well, that question is far easier to answer.

My family will tell you dinnertime is our favorite time of day, and given the choice, we will choose a homemade meal over a restaurant any night of the week. We all agree a home-cooked meal goes down better and our conversation is more intentional when we’re sitting around our table. My children love nothing more than a fresh stack of conversation starter cards to liven up our mealtime. I’m the primary cook in our house but I’m teaching my children each week how to follow recipes, measure, cook, and bake. I genuinely enjoy cooking dinner for my family. (It helps that there are no picky eaters among us.) I love how happy they get when I whip up one of their favorites or the way their eyes light up in hopeful anticipation when I try out a new recipe. I think it’s fantastic how gleeful they become on what we’ve dubbed “Souper Sundays,” throughout the winter season. (We really, REALLY love soup.) I love that my kids are just as excited about gifting me a new cookbook as I am about receiving one. Cooking for them is my greatest joy and there are no people on Earth I’d rather share my last meal with.

No matter how old my children get I know they’ll always stay connected to me through my cooking. I look forward to the phone calls from their college dorm, requesting their favorite meals when they return for school breaks. I anticipate video chats from the busyness of their family kitchen, asking me if that’s how the batter is “supposed to look.” I’m certain I’ll field text messages from a grocery store as they wander the aisles looking for that one ingredient they need to recreate a recipe of mine. I know this because it’s exactly what I did, and still do, with my parents. After all these years I still need to call on Mom and Dad with the occasional question about cuts of meat, best ingredient substitutes, or wine pairings. (Sure, I could ask Alexa, but I don’t trust her culinary expertise as well as my own mother’s, and you shouldn’t either.) I love pulling out recipes in my mom’s handwriting for meals I grew up eating and now share with my own family. I’ve assured my children I will write down the recipes of all their favorite meals before they move out. They are already putting in their requests.

The kitchen is said to be the heart of the home. I couldn’t agree more. When I think of my childhood, my mind instantly goes to the smells and sounds of my parents cooking in the kitchen. I can picture my Mom’s yellow apron and hear our big metal popcorn bowl clanging as my Dad tossed the kernels with bright orange cheese powder and melted butter. (We weren’t exactly health nuts in the 80’s okay?) I remember watching my Dad whisk eggs so rapidly I thought he’d sprain his wrist, and the sound of my Mom’s food processor shredding cheese for her “famous” deep dish pizza. I could pick our bacon tray out of a lineup, and I’d know my mom’s recipe book with my pencil scribbles on the binding anywhere. But nothing stands out more in my memory than the pair of plastic cups my parents drank their Diet Coke from nearly every day. Those cups were stolen from a Shakey’s restaurant by my mother in her “wild" college days, and that ever-present reminder of her humanity and not-so-shiny track record is probably why I loved them most. (I should pause here and say that I did verify this memory with my mother. She tried to convince me not to use the word “steal,” and instead say something like “permanently borrowed,” but I’m not a fiction writer folks. I’d further like to say that the two cups were stolen on separate occasions because putting two cups in her purse would have drawn attention. So you could say my mother was a repeat offender of petty theft. And you could say that only unrepentant criminals hold on to their loot as a trophy day after day for years on end. But I’m not here to judge, only to present the facts as I know them. Anyway, I’m sure the statute of limitations passed decades ago so it’s neither here nor there.)

I’ve written before about how the recipes of my grandparents live on through me. I make ice cream malts and German pancakes in memory of my Opa. I make peanut butter star cookies and Buster Bars in memory of my Oma. When my Grandma turned 80 all her grandkids were asked to contribute a favorite memory or story to put in a book for her. Mine had mostly to do with her kitchen; her homemade hot fudge sauce and her goulash that still makes me salivate when I think about it, her recycling of food containers to store all her leftovers, and the photos of her seven grandchildren plastered in a collage on the face of her refrigerator. When my children grow up and leave the nest, I’m sure the color teal will always remind them of our kitchen. They’ll remember my glazed ceramic soup pot, in its bright shade of teal that brought a smile to my face every time I set it on the stovetop. I’m sure they’ll also remember my CrockPot in a matching shade of teal, which they gifted me for my birthday; it is by far my favorite appliance. My KitchenAid mixer, also in teal, has taken up prime real estate on our kitchen counter for years, and always will. It has produced pies, cookies, bread, and cakes they will remember fondly as they begin lives of their own. My cookbooks are few but well-loved. The pages are splattered with oil and batter. Some pages have post-its and others are bookmarked. Our favorite recipes have my notes written in the margins. Someday they’ll belong to my kids, and they will keep us connected long after I’ve had my last meal.

It’s not the food itself though that makes the connection. It’s the company with which we share it. I could come up with dozens of options for my last meal, but if I had to eat it alone, it wouldn’t matter much at all. Our chosen “comfort foods,” comfort us not with flavor, but with memories of home, of family, of happy times. (This is why I loved many foods as a kid that I would turn my nose up to now, but I’ll always regard with fondness.) Food anchors us to our past, to our heritage, or to our hometown. It can give us a sense of belonging when we need it most. Food is a connector. No matter how different we are, we all share a common need and love for food. It’s why we gather around tables, bring dishes to share, and meet up at restaurants. It’s why a hot meal or a cup of coffee can mean the world to someone who has lost everything. Jesus shared His meals with others. It was an important part of His ministry, and it’s an important part of ours too. I can testify to the blessing of a home-cooked meal when walking the hard road of grief, facing the exhaustion of a new baby, or the stress of a new home. I am so grateful for meals gifted and share with us when our family needed them most. Likewise, cooking for others is my favorite way to give. I may not always have the right words or the quick fixes, but I can bring you a meal or invite you over to break bread with my family around our table. I promise both your stomach and your heart will leave full. Nearly all of my friendships began over a shared meal, a coffee date, or a snack traded between our children. I love how food can do that. May our last meal, whenever it happens, be among the people we love.

Jesus’ last meal was among His friends (Matthew 26), and the bread and wine we consume for communion is a beautiful example of how food connects us to Him. It’s through the spilling of His blood and the sacrifice of His body that we are joined with Christ. Bread and wine take us back to the crucifixion, to the day Jesus saved us from ourselves. Communion would have us stop, savor, and remember as all good comfort food does. And like our favorite meal, communion isn’t meant to be kept to ourselves; it is better when shared. What if we shared the Gospel message as often as we shared meals? What if every time we broke bread with a friend, a family member, or even a stranger, we told them the Good News of Jesus? What if we treated every meal as our last?

Note: Like any grown-up, I still have a healthy fear of parental repercussions and that is why I waited to write this post until after I knew my Mom had already put my Christmas gifts in the mail. I’m not a complete idiot after all.