I imagine if I were to have a last meal, my very last meal on earth, I wouldn’t choose.
I would start off with an antipasto platter strewn with marinated olives, sun-dried tomatoes, parmigiano reggiano, spicy pickled vegetables, grilled eggplant, prosciutto, and salami.
There would be beef, chicken, and fish along with sides of pasta, rice, and every salad imaginable (but a good Caesar laden with garlic and hot, crisp bacon would be a must), accompanied with fresh warm bread straight from the oven dipped in expensive olive oil and balsamic vinegar.
The table would have bottles of both red and white wine, and unlike the olive oil and balsamic vinegar it wouldn’t have to be expensive, only my favorite stand-bys that I have found throughout the years and love because of their taste, not their price.
The meal would then end with loads upon loads of dark, milk, white, sweet, bitter, molten lava, truffled, decadent chocolate, smooth, and heavenly in my mouth with not a moment’s worry about where it would end up afterwards.
But in the end, none of that would matter because the meal would not be about what I ate but who I ate it with.
There would be no quiet table in the corner for me. It would be loud, chaotic, and boisterous with my husband and sons front and centre, though not at the head of the table. No, I would want us to be mixed in with our guests—our extended family—sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, cousins, in-laws, and the relatives we see only at weddings and funerals and then walk away shaking our heads as to why we don’t visit more often, promising to do so in the future.
Of course, I could never forget the family of my heart, the family that we choose—friends. Both the old and the new, and everyone in between. Their children would be there too because we are mothers and the celebration would not be complete without our children.
I picture it at a table outside on a stone patio beside a lake with the sun shining down and large white clouds dotting the sky, a warm breeze blowing across our faces and erasing all humidity from the air. There would be white table cloths, comfortable chairs, and china dishes. But not fancy china. This is one meal that wouldn’t be ruined because small hands broke a dish. If something was dropped, we would sweep it up, dispose of it, and laugh at the silliness of ever choosing a child’s feelings over a plate.
We would celebrate with laughter and good natured yelling, bodies half out of our chairs as our outstretched arms reached across the table to pass the platters around yet again. The stories of our lives would be poured as freely as the wine and when it was all said and done, when our bellies were full and we were leaned back in our chairs enjoying the evening, one by one, I would tell each person how much they mean to me and why.
That's how I would spend my last meal.
I imagine it’s how we should spend every meal.
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