My Last Meal

Oh, no!

It’s my last meal?

That sucks.

Fire up the grill, then, mes amis. But first….

Launder, dry, and iron my white linen blindfold, light on the starch. Load the rifles of the firing squad, and bring me hot water for my final ablutions.

Is Chaz Dean available to do my hair? Will he weave some baby’s breath around my head? Bobbie Brown for my makeup, please.

My sunset ombre ruched gown by Monique Lhuillier just arrived from Neiman-Marcus, for a mere $5,290.00 + tax and shipping. Sunset colored, get it? Isn’t it the bomb? Strapless, backless, full flowing skirt.

No thanks on the Spanx.

Oprah—so good of her to attend every day of my trial—has loaned me her favorite diamond drop earrings. I won’t need them for long. Kim Kardashian sent me her 20.5 ct. engagement ring, since she can’t bear to look at it with the unfortunate pending divorce. That will round out my understated jewelry.

For my perfume… hmmn. C’est tres difficil. I’ll have a light spritz of Insolence (Guerlain)? My Sin (Lanvin)? Poison (Dior)? Yes, Poison, please.

No shoes. I’ll have a nice pedicure and expire, au naturelle, barefoot, just the way I was born.

The hour is upon me.

Bring out the antique bone china, the cut crystal, the sterling flatware. Something nice and ornate.Being held prisoner in this royal castle does have its advantages. The dining room is well appointed; a ballroom is nearby.

Some red rosebuds in a crystal bowl are the centerpiece. Twelve ivory beeswax candles glow. The air-conditioner is cranked, so the room is just slightly cool. Even preparing for death, my menopausal needs must be met.

Billy Joel, wearing a tux, is singing “Only the Good Die Young.” Gregg Allman and the boys rock out on “I’m No Angel.” Sting makes a special appearance, and patiently waits for his turn to sing “Every Breath You Take.” “Hungry Heart” is Bruce Springsteen’s contribution.

Now, for the repast. The appetizer: a half dozen Chesapeake Bay oysters, with lemon, chilled on ice.

What’s this? Jon Bon Jovi offers to be my server for the evening. He looks smashing and asks me to dance while my main course is prepared. I’m a wonderful dancer after the tutoring by Maksim Chmerkovskiy. Jon sweeps me across the floor in a blur, whispering the lyrics to "Living On A Prayer" in my ear.

Next arrives a 1 ½ inch thick Angus beef, New York strip steak, marinated eight hours in a mix of fragrant, freshly chopped garlic, olive oil, red wine vinegar, fresh thyme, salt, and black pepper. Grill it medium rare, over a hickory-wood fire, and make sure it is still pink in the middle, please.

I am a woman of simple tastes.

On the side, freshly made mashed Idaho russet potatoes with butter and cream, salt and pepper. Butter melting into the lovely mound of fluffy goodness.

Asparagus spears, lightly steamed, with homemade hollandaise sauce.

Hot, crusty French bread, and keep it coming, with the finest Italian olive oil and herbes de Provence in a small bowl for dipping.

Scotch, please, in a Waterford crystal glass. An 18 year-old-Macallan single malt should do.  A goblet and a pitcher of spring water with ice, as well.

For desert… an assortment of miniature French pastries, Devonshire scones, clotted cream, and a warm dark chocolate sauce on the side. Some strawberries, too.

Ah, I am replete. I will say my prayers, now, and bid you, adieu.

I push away from the table.

But what is that ringing? The telephone? The governor, a reprieve?

I’m not giving back the gown.