Preparation

Even seven years later, Adam Crowley still considered the vast differences between handling a gun and a whisk. Sure, their weights were so contrasting, anybody would realize what they were holding within mere nanoseconds, but there were other, more existential distinctions to consider.

He hurried to push this thought out of his mind and concentrate. If his attention lapsed at the wrong moment, his Béchamel sauce would burn and he could start again. True, the mixture of butter, flour, and milk seemed easy enough, but it could not be left unattended while it blended.

Anyone who glanced at Adam wouldn’t think of him as the diligent chef. And, until a few years ago, he wasn’t. Standing at six-foot-one and weighing two-hundred-and-forty pounds in his prime, he’d been an exceptional college linebacker with dreams of NFL stardom until a knee injury in his sophomore season ended his career. While he made it through college, many prospects no longer existed in the real world, and he had to make do. A pattern of “making due” was what ultimately led him to this kitchen. It seemed there wasn’t a more exact position for a washed-up football player with no real job experience.

“You know how to cook?” someone had asked not long after Adam first arrived.

“Kind of,” Adam replied.

“Kind of” was good enough. A few worn-out books helped round out this “experience,” and no one had died so far.

Watching as the sauce thickened, Adam added the final half-cup of milk and continued stirring. So far, so good. He’d left the mustard within easy reach and was glad to see his assistant hadn’t moved it. The two got into an argument about this three years ago and almost came to blows. Thankfully, there was no bloodshed and Adam’s desire to get things right in the kitchen was since then respected.

Having already measured out two teaspoons of mustard, Adam added them while continuing to whisk. The sauce remained thick and even. Adam let it cook a few more minutes, continuously stirring, before turning the burner below the pot to LOW.

The process hadn’t been rehearsed, but his assistant, a small, weaselly man named Roy, was ready with the egg he’d beaten while probably slipping six more from the carton into his pockets. Why he did this, nobody could explain. He didn’t have any place outside this kitchen to cook them.

Adam didn’t care about the eggs, minus the beaten one. It wasn’t like anyone would miss them. Ever since becoming the de facto head cook, Adam was largely left to his own devices when it came to preparing the many courses required every day. He figured a person could drive an eighteen-wheeler loaded with culinary ingredients out of this place and no one would be the wiser. He had no plans to try such a scenario, but one couldn’t rule this out when Roy was involved. He just had no time to consider that, separate sequence of possibilities.

“Thanks, Roy,” he said, taking the bowl containing the beaten egg.

“No problem, Boss,” Roy replied, his voice carrying a hiss on which he had to be holding a trademark. Adam certainly never heard anything like it. He wondered how anyone ever actually trusted this guy. Sure, he did, but that was in large part to their ending up in this kitchen together. Their options had been make it work … and that was it.

“Check the oven,” Adam instructed. “Should be almost done there.”

“Sure thing, Boss,” Roy replied.

Adam wished the man would stop calling him that. It was just plain uncomfortable. But, while Roy followed orders in the kitchen, there were some things from which he could not be deterred.

Returning to his work, Adam measured out a quarter-cup of his freshly prepared sauce and poured it over the beaten egg in its bowl. Again, he continuously stirred, this time to keep the warm sauce from cooking the egg. Sure, people shouldn’t eat raw eggs, but that didn’t mean the egg had to be prepared by straight-up cooking it. No, Adam would follow the recipe he’d found in one of the old cookbooks and everything else would take care of itself.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Roy withdrawing the pan from the oven. The two dozen pigs-in-a-blanket looked good. Adam hadn’t enjoyed preparing something so simple, but they’d been requested, and he adhered to such requests. He did delegate a large portion of that preparation to Roy, who easily cut up the crescent rolls and wrapped them around each little sausage. He’d properly pre-heated the oven to three hundred and fifty degrees and sprayed the baking pan with non-stick cooking oil. He’d completed the task by sprinkling parmesan cheese over the little pigs and slid them into the oven to bake for no more than twenty minutes.

As Roy now set each pig-in-a-blanket on a large plate, Adam thought they looked a little crispy. Perfect. The little man had done well.

While observing his assistant, Adam never forgot about the work in front of him. Once the egg and the portion of sauce blended, he poured the mixture back into the pot on the stove, keeping it on low heat and stirring so it all stayed smooth. He was approaching the end, so it would stink if he screwed it up now. Glancing up at the clock, he saw he wouldn’t have time to start over anyway. He had explicit instructions. Everything was to be ready by 6:00. The clock’s little hand was almost pointing straight down at the six while the big hand rested about halfway between the nine and ten.

The good thing was the hard part was finished. Adam just had to keep stirring as he added the final ingredients, all of them pre-measured and waiting on the counter like the mustard. Roy hadn’t touched anything.

The pound of grated cheddar came first. Adam would have liked to have a pound he or Roy had grated themselves, as the recipe called for, but he was long ago told it wasn’t in the budget. Not liking this logic but having no grounds to object, he reluctantly accepted these parameters and continued stirring as the cheese bag’s contents melted into his sauce. Next came a teaspoon of salt, replacing the half-teaspoon salt and the half-teaspoon seasoned salt in the recipe as the latter, again for budget reasons, wasn’t available. Finally, there was the pepper. Adam added half a teaspoon and stirred, letting it all cook for another minute.

Satisfied, he turned the burner off and retrieved two small clean spoons.

“Hey, Roy,” he called.

The little man zoomed over like a yo-yo on rebound. He knew what came next. Adam gave him one of the little spoons and he dug it into the finished sauce, trying to scoop up as much as possible. He shoved it into his mouth and Adam considered if he’d eat the utensil. But he instead sucked it dry before pulling it out with a faint pop.

“Pretty good, Boss,” he remarked after an exaggerated swallow.

Adam dipped his own spoon into the sauce, not being as generous in his sample, and had to agree. True, it would have been better had he had all the correct ingredients, but it was all right. Adam supposed that had to be enough.

He brought over the large bowl of macaroni he’d earlier cooked and drained. He added the sauce and used a big wooden spoon to mix it all together. Having nothing else to do, Roy watched, his mouth nearly watering.

“Now that looks like some good mac and cheese,” he remarked as Adam covered the finished product with foil. He took the bowl and set it down next to the plate of pigs in their blankets.

The final touch was the two Kaiser rolls, left on the counter to defrost five minutes ago. Roy set the pair on another plate and added them to the setup.

“One with poppy seeds and one without,” he commented. “Somebody likes variety.”

“I suppose so,” Adam said, loading his cooking supplies and utensils into the sink. He’d completed the meal as specified, which was what mattered to everyone.

At two minutes before six, two corrections officers entered the kitchen. They never knocked but those heavy footfalls on the linoleum always announced their arrival. All COs had such heavy boots … or was it just their feet?

Adam and Roy both stood facing them, Roy always looking ready to salute. It was another habit he wouldn’t, or perhaps couldn’t, break. Then again, he’d be inside this place for decades to come. It was best not to antagonize those in uniform. For one thing, the kitchen was a prime workspace with a waitlist ready to replace those who messed up their chance.

“Everything’s ready?” one of the officers asked, eyeing the covered dishes on the cart.

“Yes, Boss,” Roy said.

Adam nodded in agreement, a slight cringe shooting through his body.

“You two eat yet?” the officer asked.

“Yes, Boss,” Adam confirmed. He and Roy consumed some self-made sandwiches while letting the macaroni cook earlier.

The other officer went over to one of the large refrigerators and pulled it open. He didn’t have to look long for what he needed as he’d put it there earlier. He withdrew the six-pack of plastic Mountain Dew bottles. That was probably the one thing in there that would be missed if someone swiped it. Soda was almost nonexistent in the prison, at least for most inmates. The officer added it to the cart and pushed the whole thing towards the door.

“Clean up within half an hour,” the first officer instructed. “Someone will inspect and you two go back to your cells after that.”

Adam and Roy nodded. The two officers left with the food.

“That Mac and Cheese did look good,” Roy remarked.

While he admired such dishes, he’d never sneak an unpermitted taste. Adam and Roy had prepared the final meals as requested for seven condemned men. From the beginning, Roy firmly believed one didn’t mess with the food of someone whose life was set to end within the next three hours.

“You just don’t mess with a man’s last meal,” seemed to be his mantra.

Under Adam’s direction, just over three dozen convicts worked in the kitchen, preparing over four thousand meals every day. But for the requested last meal, it was just him and Roy.

They’d first started working together on this four years ago. Zane Bradley, convicted of murdering a retired janitor whose apartment he’d been burglarizing, had asked for a breakfast platter, including pancakes, French toast, bacon, sausages, scrambled eggs, bananas, cut-up cantaloupe, and toast with butter. While preparing the meal, Adam and Roy found they worked well together and became the default pair for this task.

Adam paused, trying to remember the name of the man slated to die that night. Drake Stewart, convicted of killing two state troopers during a traffic stop on a rural stretch of highway. Like the others, society considered his crime horrific, heinous, and worthy of the ultimate punishment. But Adam didn’t like to think about that as he prepared these meals. He preferred to think he was giving another person a few minutes of happiness, and perhaps fond memories, before the end. He knew dwelling on what they’d done and what would happen to them would not do him any good.

He also often considered how everything had turned out. Just under a decade earlier, he was robbing fast-food joints with an unloaded gun. Now, he was just a couple years from his first opportunity at parole. He already knew what he’d say to the board. He’d tell them he now had a goal … a purpose. He would be a chef. He knew his experience in the prison’s kitchen would count for something and he’d let the skills he attained take him further while he continued learning. Maybe he’d write a cookbook. maybe … someday.

As Roy set to work wiping down the counters, Adam began washing dishes. They now had to focus on the cleanup. Half an hour meant half an hour. Dreams could come later.