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| Walking in My Shoes | |
| By CameronS | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| 12 October 2006 | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||
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Written in 2003. I promise to add more recent pieces in due course. This will be the last entry in my personal diary. It will not be a plea for mercy, it is too late for that. It will not be a request for absolution, I do not wish to be absolved. I remain unrepentant. This last diary entry will be dedicated to my one true love - the only thing I thought about every day of my, soon to be cut short, life. The subject of this final passage is food. Last night they asked me what I would like for my final meal. I had thought of little else for several days. I wanted it to be appropriate, to say something about who I am and what I have done with my life. This is my attempt to do justice to my last meal. When you are choosing your last meal all sorts of thoughts enter your mind. All the meals you have ever eaten in all those restaurants and all those friends' homes. 'They' say that when you are about to die your whole life passes before your eyes. Nothing focused my eyes like the thought of never eating again. What should I choose? What have I enjoyed the most and why? All those memories. Those same people called 'they' also say that the sense of smell is the sense most closely associated with memory. I would tend to agree although I would argue that the senses of smell and taste together enhance those memories. How many times have we all heard stories of vegetarians lapsing into carnivorous behaviour because they smelled bacon cooking? Mmmm, bacon. I thought long and hard about the smell of bacon under a hot grill. I salivated just at the thought. Bacon had to be there somewhere. It was. And it was beautiful. A final meal should consist of so many ingredients as to do justice to the selection that God has so thankfully provided. I couldn't let God down in my final day. A final meal should be a cornucopia of tastes, an explosion of flavours. And each flavour should be enjoyed for as long as possible. So, here is the menu I enjoyed today. I sat at the lonely table, laid with silver and fine crystal. It is incredible what will be provided for a prisoner on his final day. I lit the single candle myself then lit a cigarette from the same match. I drew deeply on the nicotine and sat back to contemplate the next few hours. The scents of cooking began to filter through from the kitchen. I could hear the faint sounds of chopping and of pans being selected by the chef, undoubtedly feeling the pressure of having to perform at his very best for such a special customer. As I stubbed out the cigarette in the ash tray, I became suddenly conscious of an increase in clear, thin saliva underneath my tongue. I felt my stomach tighten in anticipation of the delights to come. I hoped my stomach would be large enough to cope with the extensive menu I had selected. A waiter appeared out of nowhere, as is their own particular skill. I have often wondered if waiters would make good spies. Perhaps they already are and it is this training that makes the best ones invisible to the eye until required. The waiter offered me the label on a bottle of wine. Yes, Chateau neuf du Pape, thank you. Please open it, decant it and leave it on the table. He was gone again. Just as quickly he reappeared and began pouring a bottle of ice cold lager into one of the crystal glasses. It was perfect. The golden liquid so much enjoyed from ancient Egyptians to modern day Australians bubbled up inside the glass creating a thin, inviting foam at the surface. Condensation formed on the outside and I watched as one drip slid down and then dashed around the base to leave a damp semi-circle on the table when I picked up the glass. I took my first sip. What I treat my taste buds have in store, I thought. Small, circular earthenware dishes appeared. Ah, yes. Andalusia. Rinones al Jerez. Veal kidneys cooked in sherry. Gambas Pil Pil. Prawns cooked in garlic butter. I picked up my fork and felt a sadistic pleasure when I stabbed a prawn. My eyeballs rolled skywards as the melted butter and warm garlic spread over my tongue and evaporated throughout my mouth. I felt the sides of my mouth curl upwards into an involuntary smile. The prawn burst out its flavours under the pressure of my clenching teeth. I was sat in the baking Spanish summer sun, under the canopy of a tapas bar in Seville. The hubbub of street life filled the air as waiters ran in and out of the bar doorway clasping dishes and glasses of beer with the expertise of circus performers. On the opposite side of the street a guitarist plucked his and our strings as he sang about his wife leaving him. All because he drank too much and had an eye for the senoritas. I placed a sliver of rinones in my mouth and waited for the rich gravy of Jerez to infuse my tongue. I have always felt slightly uneasy about eating veal. The life given to those young cows is not something that modern man should feel comfortable about. I would have stopped eating veal years ago if only it didn't taste so damned good. The jilted husband packed away his twelve string into its faded leather case and bowed to us, his audience outside the bar, who applauded his soulful performance. I took the last sip of beer from my glass. Always a mildly depressing moment. My spirits were soon lifted by the polite waiter holding a second bottle. He poured with precision and care. "Gracias," I said. He just nodded and faded into the wall, reappearing only to clear the now empty earthenware dishes. Adios Espana. The aroma of crisping bacon entered the room shortly after the sound of sizzling. The words sizzling and bacon are synonymous. One follows the other. There is no other descriptor for the way bacon cooks. It simply sizzles and we all know it. This bacon sizzled its way to my candle-lit table on a plain white plate, atop a rocket salad and beside four plump scallops. They were all surrounded by a drizzle of balsamic vinegar. I made sure a piece of each flavour was on the first fork load. The scallops were perfectly cooked. Slightly browned on the outside and just warm and soft in the middle. The bacon complimented rather than overpowered the delicate shellfish. The rocket added a peppery taste which balanced the sharpness of the vinegar. Beautiful. I can think of no other word to describe the experience. It was my first love who had introduced me to this dish and this was my homage to her and all that she had taught me. A sophisticated lady of good breeding and excellent taste. Whatever had she seen in me? The Chateaux neuf was her choice too. I raised a glass to her and tasted her sweet lips in the wine. Wonderful memories. I wondered what she was doing and whether I should, perhaps, give her a call to see if life was treating her as well as it was me. The next dish was a tug of my metaphorical forelock to my Scottish upbringing. My grandfather read Robbie Burns loudly in my mind; His knife see rustic Labour dight An' cut ye up wi' ready slight Trenching your gushing entrails bright Like onie ditch; And then, O what a glorious sight Warm-reeking, rich! Had the prison governor known what those words meant to me I doubt he would have allowed haggis on the menu. Perhaps he will understand my thumbing my nose to him and the rest of authority when he reads this diary entry, as he undoubtedly will. I put on my own Fair fa' your honest face, smiled at the prison guard who had been watching me throughout and took my first bite of the Great chieftain o' the puddin-race! Heart and lungs shouldn't taste this good. This fine dish is testimony to all good butchers everywhere and I only wish I could count myself among them. Father, grandfather, all my forefathers, with this plate and this glass of wine I salute you and I salute the Auld Alliance. After a refreshing melon sorbet, to clean the palate, I sat back in my chair and gave thanks to God for the sea and all food within it. I had chosen my main course well. It represented my peripatetic lifestyle. My love of travel and of sea-side towns across the world. All countries, all nation states, all cultures have their own dishes of the land and I love them all for that. In all the places I have traveled I had only to head for the sea to find this fabulous fish. It lives everywhere. Yes, it comes in many guises but flat fish populate the ocean floor all over the globe. That is why I chose skate for my last main course on this planet. It arrived with a light wash of black butter and a scattering of capers. Why two such unusual ingredients as skate and capers should go so well together I do not know, but they do. And this particular skate wing was so enormous that it filled the oversized plate to the rim. I tore my gaze from the plate to see the chef standing in the kitchen doorway. Had curiosity got the better of him? Did he want to see the condemned man for himself or was he just wanting to share this moment of triumph with me? I smiled the largest smile he had probably ever seen from a customer. He lowered his head in respect and backed off politely, knowing he had made my last full day very full. I slid my knife under the flesh with the deftness of a practiced fish gutter and peeled the meat away from the substantial bones. I took a small piece and doused it in the butter. I added a single caper and brought the combination up to my mouth. I had always disliked the expression "to die for" but never had it been so apt. The side plate of Jersey new potatoes and mange tout glistened in the candle-light as their coating of butter slid down to form a pool of moisture on the plate. I cut one of the potatoes. Firm yet soft. The simple potato. For so long the staple of my early diet. The vegetable that had kept me alive for so long. It was a desire to move on from the simple potato that had driven me to this prison. And here I was, eating one by choice. I thanked it for being such a good friend and for remaining loyal. I took great pleasure in biting into its wholesome goodness one last time. The mange tout was there as a thank you to my loving mother. As I pricked a few with my fork I promised her that I would eat them all before I ate my pudding. Observing the legs on the wine against the flickering candle, I allowed the waiter to remove my plates. He offered to charge my glass with the last of the decanter. His face remained impassive but I knew he could read my expression. A traitorous tear appeared at one corner of my eye. It slid down my cheek until it fell onto my napkin and spread quickly across the fibres. I stared hard at the candle, willing it to burn more slowly. I wasn't finished yet! The waiter brought out a large cup of coffee, dark and absorbing. I was drawn into the blackness by my reflection. Face long and gaunt, eyes as dark as the hour. The decanter had gone to be replaced by a brandy bulb and a ridiculously large Cuban cigar. I took a sip from the coffee. As I tried to place it back on the table I was disturbed by reappearance of the waiter carrying a white bowl which was leaving a large trail of steam. The plate was set down in front of me and my face was lost in a cloud of sweet steam. The cloud cleared to reveal syrup sponge pudding in a moat of cream custard. My childhood. Long since lost in a cloud of bitterness and injustice. Here it was again. Laughter in the swing park, running through the long grass on the common just because I could. Covering my eyes to count to a hundred then opening them to blink in the bright sunlight and take in the now empty landscape of houses and alleyways. "Coming, ready or not!" The spoon glided easily through the syrup and then sucked its way into the sponge. The sticky liquid hugged the spoon on its downward journey until the distinct 'clink' of it reaching the bottom. It slurped its way out again, collecting a small amount of custard as a passenger as it curled upwards to my waiting lips. I blew on it lightly, creating a horizontal stream of steam like the trains of my childhood. I closed my mouth over the spoon. Childhood had never tasted this good. I made sure no-one else was watching as I picked up the bowl and licked the inside clean. I placed it back on the table and closed my eyes. As the taste began to fade I could see evening closing in. The sun had taken refuge behind the horizon and only twilight remained. The children had all gone home and only the echoes of their laughter bounced off the walls of the deserted street. I stood alone once again. After a few minutes I reopened my eyes to see the table empty except for the brandy glass, the cigar and the candle, only an inch or so remained. I lit the cigar from the candle and breathed in the bitter sweet smoke. The lack of oxygen made my head spin so I picked up the brandy and took a large gulp. I didn't want to lose the feeling of intoxication. I hummed a few of my favourite tunes to myself as I lapped up the camaraderie of my friends and the aroma of old leather armchairs in a gentlemen's lounge in London. We swapped stories of the Indian sub-continent and laughed uproariously at each others' punch lines. The cigar hissed its annoyance at being stubbed out and the final sip of brandy reluctantly dribbled onto my patient tongue. The meal was over. I took a few moments to apologise to all the ingredients I had not invited to join me in my final farewell, but every party guest list forgets someone. I just hoped that they would forgive me and not forget me. I dabbed my lips with the napkin, which I placed carefully and deliberately on the table. I turned to the waiter emerging once more from the wall. "Did you enjoy your meal, sir?" he asked. "Very much, thank you. My compliments to the chef," I replied. "Let him know that I would have liked to have reserved a table for next week but I am going on a long journey. Let him also know that the taste of this wonderful meal will be going with me." Rising from the table, I stumbled slightly. Turning to the waiter, who had motioned to assist me, I said "Try walking in my shoes." This is the last entry in my personal diary. I will shortly be on my knees with my hands clasped together praying to the only one who can grant me forgiveness for my trespasses. Tomorrow I will die with as much dignity as death will allow me. And I will die with a full stomach.
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