Thankfully, I have not yet tired of lentils and spinach, since I made a large batch of it when Jeannie was here. It’ll do just fine for breakfast. And the Falafel Taco, my ever-faithful, if not overly exciting wife makes a fine lunch.
When dinnertime rolls around, I am looking at lentils and spinach again, and the novelty has begun to wear off. But like the contemplative convict who has reluctantly accepted her fate, I am resigned to my 30 days confinement in this bleak cell of bland and minimal food. Just as the inmate is tormented by thoughts of what could have been done differently, changed, or made better, I wallow in my regrets. If only I’d eaten a giant, juicy cheeseburger before I started, I wouldn’t crave meat so! OH, how I wish I’d rediscovered that damned peppermint bark I’d stowed in the glove box before my 30 days began!
And as my hypothetical caged convict spends her days carefully planning for the future, I count the days until I gain back my liberty, writing, and re-writing 8-page letters to Pizza on sheets of prison-issue toilet paper. I ponder and plot my first few moments and days of freedom. What will it feel like, I wonder? Do I reform and learn from my hard time served, forsaking my food friends (Jeannie), eating healthier, and exercising more? Or revert to my former self, order seven different types of cheeseburgers from the Vortex, and eat them all in one sitting? And dear baby Jesus in your golden fleece diaper, do I drink a beer or a diet coke first?
Of course, I could end this self-imposed epicurean abstention at any time, thus lifting the burden of serving as both prisoner and my own jailor. But that would make for a really lame blog. So, as I savor my dessert of four frozen blackberries, I decide to serve out the remainder of my sentence. How melodramatic is that?
By the way, I have never had prison food, but I think my girl Falafel Taco probably outshines even the belles of the prison-food balls.