Actually…

Tonight as I was sitting with close friends dining on a spectacular meal of our own endeavors, the subject of our last suppers came up. A pall fell over the table as we gave due reverence to the topic at hand.

We started with those that would be at our dinner, and with this we were unanimous, our close friends and family. For me, that is a table of twelve, my wife, children, and my closest friends who understand the mysticism of food. The place must be warm and homey, with comfortable but not relaxing chairs. It would be night, and the room would have a dim but filling light.

We went around the table detailing a dish that would be present in our final supper. I started with my grandmother’s fried chicken. A thing of utter perfection that I will never have again. It is crisp, but not crunchy, salty such that saliva wells up in my mouth. When I bite through the skin, the juice streams down the sides of my face. The firm flesh gives no resistance to my greedy advance. It is love cooked with zeal into the thigh of a yard bird. And it is gone forever.

When I come to, I realize that tears are running down my check, and I stop. Food is abnormally important to me, and I discuss it without end. But not this. This I cannot discuss. This I have to get right, and I am not ready.