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The second meal would be in an intimate room with the man I adore. The food wouldn't matter at all. All that would matter is that it would be his beautiful hands that would be holding mine, his lips that would kiss me goodbye - for now - and his face I would see at the moment of death.
Maybe we could all consider the question "What is your perfect meal?" or something like that. Then we could concentrate on the food!
To business at hand, this is one of those psychological questions my friends and I used to ask each other as teens. When I was younger and trying to sound deeply impressive I would eat something exotic with champagne in an old monastery in France. Regaling Van Gogh and Dali or Jesus and Father Damian.
Now that I am deeply impressive I would have it at McDonald's. With my fabulous husband and mom and two brothers and their wives and six children and my sister and brother in law and their two children. And about twenty of my closest friends from around the world. I would watch my little nieces and nephews having a blast in the play area and indulge in a rolling around in plastic ball action myself.
I would have sushi brought in from the place next door of course.
And eat all the things off the McMenu I am allergic to.
I would not tell a soul it was my last meal. I would always want them to have the joy of spending time with each other. And have that as a beautiful memory.
Then the supper, with just my husband, to include things we made together from whatever is seasonal at the time of my impending demise, and steaks from Peter Lugers, and an assortment of lovely wine, and at least one thing I have never tried before.
I would share it with whom evers deep dark eyes I was swimming in at that time.
I would be surrounded with all of my family and friends (sitting next to my Nin). We would be in England, in the huge back garden of my families home, at the long rough wooden table with the mismatched chairs, candles, greenery all around. The air would be warm and smell of the salty sea and elderflowers and the wood pigeons would be cooing in the distance.
My last meal I would like to make myself. I would do a traditional Italian dinner with twelve courses, all recipes my Dad taught me, plus a few appies and salads that are more Westcoast, my inventions. I would finish with a dessert my Mom taught me- simple but so reminiscent of childhood: lazy daisy cake. I would feed all the people that were at my wedding, adding my daughter (whom I hope is an old lady by then) and any new dear friends. We're up to around 500 people now, but hey, I'm Italian, it's the way we do things. And I always like to have a good audience.
I am remembering a good saying that I read somewhere. Live everyday as if it is your last because one day you will be right. To embrace full hearted, wise and loving living. Every meal could be our last means I can slow down and savour each moment for what it is. A quiet simple lunch alone, a riotous noisy dinner party with lots of friends who helped to prepare the meal, a latte with a teary friend whose beloved cat has just died.
I work as a palliative care nurse and what I have learnt is to be fully in the now whatever that now is. Our last meal is the one we just ate.
Jennifer Sage
My daughter, my friend and my soulmate. And these are the same person and three separate people at the same time.
And that tells what I really should be allowing and disallowing in my life, especially at this stage.
Thank you for this.
-guests would be my family, especially my children and the Dali Lama.