My Last Supper

Isn’t it weird how you commit yourself to one thing that seems almost arbitrary (teaching myself calligraphy)  and not commit to another that you swear is important (I spend the time I should be studying French watching Fixer Upper)? I desperately want this to be a place where I share my thoughts on all things beautiful that I get to participate in with, not just my readers (hey, Mom), but with myself. Posterity, anyone? I’m in the midst of writing another long (maybe meaningful, probably pedantic, likely scattered) post about what I hope to achieve with this here bloggy blog in the future, but I really wanted to put something – anything – down, if only for the sake of starting (and please, in the name of all that is holy, maintaining) a habit.

With that being said, I read a beautiful book last year that interviewed fifty of the world’s greatest chefs, asking them a series of questions about their last meal, the meal they would have if the world ended tomorrow. With my constant thinking about food, as well as being in the presence of passion people have when they talk about what they love, I was in heaven, peeking into the minds of people who cook for a living. The thing that struck me was that their last meals wouldn’t necessarily be the most expensive, but the most experienced – full of dishes that reminded them of something, dishes that instantly transported them back to places they had once been – and with the people they cared about the most. I almost wanted to take all of their answers for my own, but that would completely be beside the point: if I’m dying tomorrow, I don’t want to experience something new, I want to spend time with the things and people I know.

Isn’t it weird how food (and writing) tastes so much better when you share it?

***

What would be your last meal on earth?        

A whole slew of things that bring me back to my time as a Navy Brat and my travels: fundraiser lumpia and pancit, manapua, that eggplant dish from Pamela Popo, my uncle’s mashed potatoes, perfectly crispy French fries with a side of Roquefort cheese to dip them in, roadkill chicken, the first lemon risotta I made, and hericot verts with slivered almonds and a squeeze of lemon. I’d finish with Nutella crepes from a Parisian street cart and a handful of pistachio and lavender macarons. And lots of good French bread and butter.

What would be the setting for the meal?       

A big wooden table with chairs whose seats are large enough to sit cross-legged on a veranda at a Tuscan villa, overlooking the countryside on a cool summer evening. The table would be covered by my mother’s tablecloths from Sorrento and her pottery from Vietri. (For someone who loves Paris, I’m definitely homesick for Italy).

What would you drink with your meal?     

The water my friend and I had after a long, hot day pattering around Roma, any Sauterne, a couple glasses of Les Deux Terroir, and a few bottles of Shipyard Pumpkinhead (I’m gonna get plastered before I die and I’m okay with that).

Would there be music?

Maybe some Dario Marianelli and Birdy, but quietly and in the background.

Who would be your dining companions?     

My family and my friends – people that are great at conversation. I’d definitely have the people that have completely changed my idea’s around food: Beth, Melissa, Michael Pollan, Thomas Keller, and Jesus (that guy knew what a meal could do for and meant to people).

Who would prepare the meal?     

Not me, but I’d be in the kitchen, talking with whomever it was.

Also…someone feed me all the recipes from this book.