THE LAST SUPPER

     My family plays a game called The Last Supper, which goes like this: If you knew you were about to eat your last meal in this dimension, what would it be?  Here's the fun part:  There are no rules and no limit to the number of courses or plates involved, and there's no Jiminy Cricket sitting on your shoulder reminding you to include a green vegetable.  Just list your favorite foods of all time.

     While you're pondering yours, let me share mine:

     Caesar salad with cornbread croutons.  Yes, I said you didn't have to include a green vegetable, but I happen to love salads, especially of the Caesar variety.

     Nachos with freshly roasted green chiles and enough cheese to block out the sun, the absolute history of cheese.  I don't want to be able to see even the corner of a chip peeking out from under it all.  

        Fettuccine Alfredo with lots of fresh black pepper.  'Nuff said. 

      A Maryland soft-shell crab with a side of Thrasher's French fries.  The crab speaks for itself, but if you're not from the Chesapeake Bay area, you might not be familiar with Thrasher's fries.  Let me enlighten you.  On any list of the best French fries in the United States, Thrasher's is always near the top.  They have shops on the boardwalk in Ocean City, Maryland, and Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, and you know you're getting close when you 1) smell the heavenly combination of peanut oil, salt, and vinegar, and 2) you see the end of the line, which is decidedly farther away from the shop than the head of the line, but it's worth the wait.  Anticipation is part of the thrill when it comes to these fries.  The line moves quickly because not one of the hot, sweaty, spud-slinging individuals behind the counter ever stops moving.  Ever.  When you reach the head of the line, you shout out your order, and when your money has barely left your hands, a large cup (or bucket -- go, you!) of sizzling fries is handed to you.  If you're a seasoned veteran, you know to move the heck out of the way and down to the fixings bar, a term I use loosely because it includes only two items: shakers of salt and bottles of vinegar.  Anoint your fries, and then again, get the heck out of the way.  And please, in the name of all that is holy, do not EVER ask for ketchup.  If you do, you will witness for the first time in recorded history all those hot, sweaty, spud-slinging individuals (as well as everyone on the boardwalk within a block of you) come to a complete halt while they pause to glare at you as if you had just . . . well, ASKED FOR KETCHUP AT THRASHER'S!  It's simply not done!  Trust me, the combination of freshly fried, crispy, salty, vinegary potatoes eaten while walking on the boardwalk on an Atlantic beach summer day is what heaven's all about.  

     Now, here is where most would probably include dessert, and there was a time when I wouldn't have hesitated, but these days, my cravings run more toward salty/crispy/cheesy rather than sweet.  If I were strung up by my thumbs, I'd say, "All right, I'll have a big piece of wedding cake, the corner piece with the huge buttercream icing roses, guaranteed to put me in a sugar coma until Tuesday."  But frankly, I'd rather go out with the taste of those Thrasher's fries. 

     So that's my last meal.  How about yours?  Please be sure to include all those dishes you're probably avoiding now because they're too fatty, too salty, too naughty, or too whathaveyou.  In fact, the first time I read through my list, it struck me that none of those foods had touched my lips in years.  I quickly remedied that by including one of my favorites on our weekly "Naughty Night" menu after realizing what a complete pisser it would be to lie on my death bed thinking, "I wish I'd eaten more nachos.  I really loved nachos."  Don't let that happen to you!

     Epilogue:  The day after my last supper, I arrive at the pearly gates, and when they are opened to welcome me, the first thing I see is . . . no, it can't possibly be!  It's the bathroom scale I cussed at for years and finally threw in the trash decades ago!  Nooooooooooo!  But when I step hesitantly forward, I see that the sinister looking eyes are gone, and in their place, my scale is sporting a happy face emoji with hearts for eyes.  It speaks: "Don't be afraid.  Step on up!" So I do, with closed eyes and a trembling tummy.  And before I have the courage to look, the scale exclaims, "Congratulations, Marilyn, you've lost five pounds!"  (Cue the harps and the angel choir!)  Hallelujah, this IS heaven!