Food, Glorious Food

     “Where Do you want to go on your last days of freedom?” My friend Gabe texted. It

was mid-May 2021. I would self-surrender to the Bureau of Prisons in a few days.

Nostalgia was in my mind's foreground. I proposed heading down to Hastings to visit

my old stomping grounds on Hastings College campus. The chances were strong I

wouldn't be visiting central Nebraska anytime soon, even after my incarceration.

Gabe picked me up, and he, his boyfriend, and I drove highway 281 from Grand Island,

past cornfields, over the Platte River, into Adams County, and down tree shaded side

streets. We stopped by the cemetery north of campus. Gabe and I used to stroll the

Grand Island cemetery, checking out headstones at dusk, so visiting another fit my

memory lane mood. After we got to campus, I gave an anecdote-filled walking

tour, sharing stories two decades prior of a more naïve, shy and idealistic Brian. The

stroll done, Gabe asked, “Any other haunts you’d like to visit?” Pondering a bit, I

remembered a Mexican restaurant on the far south of town that friends and I used to

patronize. Sadly, it had shut down, but a few blocks north was another that would

suffice as a proxy reminiscence.

    We slid into a booth. I took in the sights, sounds, and smells that typify so many

cantinas. The chintzy décor of sombreros, terra cotta sun faces and piñatas hung on

walls; Mariachi tracks, the sizzle of grills, and clinking of silverware and glasses

harmonized. Scents of cumin, cooked peppers and onions, and fried tortillas wafted

into my nostrils. It was all part of the experience.  Gabe, Abe and I imbibed some

“margs”,  mine a blended mango, noshed on chips and salsa, and chatted awaiting our

entrees.

    My impending incarceration was at the edges of our conversation. Soon, I relished in

my vegetarian platter of Chile rellenos, a spinach and mushroom quesadilla, cheese

enchiladas, and a lake of rice and beans. It was one of a few “breakings of bread” I had

done with friends and family in those last months of a farewell tour. We sat and spoke

at coffee shops, over burritos, vegan fare, and sandwiches and around a century-old

behemoth table in my parents’ home. Like many, food has always been a medium for

me to meet, to reunite, to celebrate, to plan and to part ways with others.

    A week after savoring the mango margarita and convo in that padded booth, meals

were one of the introductions to prison life. I arrived at Fed Med on a Wednesday. The

grub that night was spaghetti, a garden salad, spinach, a buttered hotdog bun posing

as garlic bread. It was a good night of the five-week menu rotation. It was also a packed house. I

learned the rituals and rules of the chow hall: standing in line, grabbing utensils, cup,

and napkins, saying “no meat” to the hairnet-donned server, grabbing your plastic tan

colored tray, standing and waiting for a seat to open up in your car’s section, gobbling

down with occasional small talk, getting up to make room, sliding your tray onto the

dish room receiving table, and maybe being patted down by CO’s before exiting. It’s

akin to middle school cafeteria, minus the frisking.

    During my first month, I learned that all Bureau of Prisons (BOP) facilities

follow the same menu, at least on paper. Tuesday lunch always features chicken

sandwiches, Wednesday‘s hamburgers and fries, Thursdays, chicken on the bone, and

Fridays, fish. Sundays are for brunching, either French toast, biscuits and gravy or

pancakes. One man counted down his sentence by the number of hamburgers left.

These constants are balanced with variety. Over five weeks, you can eat chicken

parmesan, fish tacos, baked zitis, chili cheese fries, fajitas, meat loaf, chef salad, sloppy

joes, nachos, Southwest wraps, and chicken fried rice among others.

    For sides, the Holy Trinity of Starches- rice, pasta, potatoes -manifest in a variety of

incarnations. Green beans, carrots, spinach, collard greens, mixed veggies, peas, corn,

pinto beans and black beans offer themselves for self-serving on the hot bar. Potato

salad, coleslaw, pasta salad, salsa, and lettuce with dressing make guest appearances

on a cold bar. Given that all of these are cooked and prepped in mass quantities for a

thousand people, by inmates typically not prior cooks, the food has been better than I

expected. Granted, I have only been at one institution. Still, the seasoning,

temperatures, texture and presentation are much better than what “Orange is the

New Black,” “The Shawshank Redemption” and Netflix documentaries portray. Is it the

Olive Garden, Applebee’s, Chilis, or the Cheesecake Factory? No. It’s better than food

served in many school cafeterias though.

    As a decade long vegetarian, sometimes vegan, I thought PB & J would be my constant

companion for five years. I was mistaken. Out of seventy lunch and dinner entrees,

it’s the no meat option just three times. Textured, mesquite soy strips replace most of

the beef and shredded chicken entrees. Veggie patties substitute for chicken and

hamburger ones; Hummus and tofu show up too. The only insipid alternatives I loathe

are beans straight out of an economy sized can heated up and unseasoned; that’s

thankfully a rarity.

    During my first year here, In 2021 and early 2022, most bread, buns, and desserts

came in prepackaged form. As Covid restrictions lifted, the bakery slowly opened, now

cranking out carbs in sundry forms for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Tuesday mornings

showcase donuts covered in powdered sugar. Cinnamon sugar or treacly glaze; On

Wednesdays, a line snakes out of the chow hall with guys waiting for a coveted

cinnamon roll comparable to one you would find at a mall kiosk. Partnered with a

bland clump of grits, it’s the Tom Cruise of that breakfast. Other weekday mornings

feature sheet cakes, sometimes north of going from batter to baked. Other times, dry

and dense to the point that milk is needed to make it slide down the esophagus. Other

days the cake is in the baby bear territory, just right. One auspicious morning, this

Nebraskan was transported back home with the Husker-Czech staple of a kolache. I gave

the guys the lowdown of the Slavic staple. The bread train makes a stop at most meals,

in rolls, bun, garlic or sliced form. Fresh from the oven, they’re addictive soft pillows of

gluten comfort; however, being preservative free, they can go stale like a TikTok trend.

Perhaps the biggest improvement of the bakery’s reopening was pizza day, with flat

desiccated flavorless slabs replaced with spongy, garlicky crusts topped with tangy

sauce and gooey mozzarella.

    A month into my sentence, I started working on the AM Diet Line, and have been

there ever since. Reporting for work at 4:30 AM , we assemble breakfast trays for the

three medical units, the seven mental health units and the solitary housing units (the

S.H.U.). Specialty diets include renal for those on dialysis, heart healthy, allergy

restrictions, mechanical soft and puree for those with chewing and swallowing

difficulty. Trays proceed down a conveyor belt where they are filled accordingly. They

are loaded into metal carts, these trays are delivered and retrieved from the units. The

cycle repeats for lunch and dinner. I’ve learned that with enough hot water and a

powerful blender, anything can be pureed. I’ve become so adept, that I’ve joked

about opening a restaurant, catered to graying boomers and featuring pureed cuisine,

when I‘m released.

    Working in the kitchen then, I’ve also seen how much food comes in to feed a

thousand people three times daily. Pallets of milk, produce, dry goods, economy sized

cans, and meat are stacked in coolers, freezers and the warehouse. Food waste, like

everywhere is common here. Some meals, like fried chicken, pizza or chili cheese fries

draw a large crowd, and staff perform a “loaves and fishes” miracle just to feed

everyone. Others, like chicken fried rice night, are ghost towns in comparison, with

pans of veggies and trays of bread left over. Most of it gets fed as an offering to “The

Orca” the name of the giant food disposal machine. Which slowly transforms kitchen

scraps and rejects with the aid of chemical pellets and a churning auger into a tan

paste with the scent of vinegar. This Willy/Shamu seems to be happy being well-fed in

captivity.

    While much does go to waste, some prized items walk out of the kitchen to be sold up

on the units. Meat, cheese, spices, peppers, onions, bananas, coffee, and peanut

butter are all in high demand. Some kitchen workers drawn to the allure of the stamp,

become creative smuggling them out. Chicken, hamburger patties, fish filets, and

cheese are wrapped in latex gloves or plastic bags. Then guys strap their wares tightly

to their torsos using hernia belts absconded from medical units. At least they are not

wearing bombs. Others wearing double sets of briefs, sewn together, stuff onions and

peppers down pants. You could mistake them for having a severe case of elephantitis’

or trying not to compensate for some personal deficiencies. Peanut butter, powdered

milk, or coffee hide in compression socks, again taken from medical units. Of course,

guys hope the khakis, aprons, and boots they wear help to further conceal their loot.

Once out of the kitchen, the swipers unload their plunder in the bottom of trash cans

or laundry carts, and the floor buffing machines for others to pick up. The skills many

have as drug traffickers transfer over to their new product.

    Veteran C.O.’s knows the trade secrets of repeat smugglers and will ask leaving kitchen

workers,” what do you have on you?” If they are honest, some smugglers will leave

with all their contraband or get to keep half. Liars, chronic carriers or egregious

purloiners face a write up, a multi-week vacation to S.H.U. and a loss of good behavior

time. Despite these risks, a lack of outside support, poor pay, a drug habit or just greed

drives guys to be regular suppliers to clients eager for ingredients to make their own

feasts in their unit. Some of those sent to the hole earn monikers like "The Peanut Butter Bandit” or “Hot 

Dog Heister."  My thievery is limited to some generic, knock off Sweet N Low packets for my coffee 

habit. One day I think I disappointed the C.O. when he asked what I was walking out with. When I pulled 

out the pink packets, he responded "that’s all you’re trying to take?” He sent me on my

way. The kitchen staff are fully aware of the black market going on daily. They usually

turn a blind eye, especially if the smuggler is a good worker. Some will add bluntly,

"just don’t tell the C.O.’s I gave you permission if you get caught.” Still there are limits

to what they will tolerate. Some have taken out so much product that it causes

shortages or gaps for the planned meal. Cheesesteak without the cheese is a downer.

Besides having access to food to sneak out, working in the Fed Med kitchen has other

perks. The staff, knowing kitchen work with its duties and hours isn’t most guys

preferred job, treat their staff well to lure them to stay on. They allow the guys to use

the blender, typically used to puree diets to make smoothies. Using banana, canned

fruit, milk, ice, and Kool aid powder, mixologists whip up pitchers of ambrosia and

pour out rounds to the morning crew. On weekends, cooks will grill up quesadillas or

egg and cheese sandwiches. For those who rise at 4AM while everyone else snoozes,

you can have all the cinnamon rolls, donuts and cake your prediabetic liver desires. On

burger day, you can have it your way while piling up on fries. Without the will to

withhold, it is easy to widen your waist.

    Federal holidays mean extra work for the staff and some novelty in meal rotation.

Cornish Game Hens make a cameo on Thanksgiving and Christmas trays. These little

ladies are slightly larger than the pigeons perched on Fed Med’s walls, eaves and

windowsills. At least, it’s not the typical chicken, technically. Some guys, suffering from

poultry fatigue, opt for the vegetarian stuffed pepper to make merry. To ring in the

new year of incarceration, the kitchen serves up strip steaks, marinated with Italian

dressing and sour cream to top baked potatoes. Columbus Day, the castaway federal

holiday, featured Supreme pizza. The bringer of mass genocide to native peoples was

Italian after all.

    In addition to federal holidays, every religious group is allotted one meal per BOP

policy. In the past, groups could go up and help prepare the meal. For example, the

Buddhists used to make the aforementioned stuffed bell peppers or fried rice in honor

of their vegetarian and Asian origins. These special meals were quashed due to a

complaint about equity for heathens at another BOP facility. It’s reason #4238 why we

can’t have nice things. Now the religious meal consists of going up to the chow hall at

2PM and eating the day’s Lunch two hours later. They always fall on a Thursday, again

chicken day. If you are in a fowl mood, you could go up for regular lunch and stay

around for a bonus meal.

    Some religious traditions, due to millennia-old dietary custom or law suits, have had

their special meals continued. Some receive Halaal or Kosher meals daily, usually, in

the form of a prepackaged TV dinner, produced at some unknown facility. I envision a

rabbi or Imam in a white lab coat giving the thumbs up as they come down the

assembly line. For Passover, the BOP spends several thousand dollars at Fed Med

buying matzah, cheese blintzes, gefelte fish, macaroons, grape juice, and other

specialty meals. For a cohort of guys who pretend to be Jewish for a week. Most

wouldn’t know a yarmulke from a Yamaha. But that doesn’t stop them from being a

faker for the seder. Most turn it into a hustle and sell off their sacrilegious meals to

others. Mazel Tov! Fed Med’s Muslim community, a more devout bunch, rise before

sunrise to eat a sack breakfast on their unit and go up to the chow hall at dusk to

break their fast during month-long Ramadan.

    Some holidays prompt feasts on the floor. For Juneteenth last year, Joe, my bunkie at

the time, organized a communal meal in my 26-bed room, each person contributing

commissary ingredients. White sex offenders, blacks from Kansas City and St. Louis,

and Latinos from parts unknown proffered up chips, cheese spread, sausages, dried

refried beans, pickles and hot peppers to make nacho bowls along with Double

Oatmeal Cream Pies and soda to celebrate the newly added federal holiday. It was a

calorie-rich, sodium-saturated fiesta. My taste buds rejoiced in it; My G.I. tract cursed

me after. The Super Bowl is neither a federal or religious holiday; however televised

NFL games draws a much bigger crowd than the Chapel does on Sundays. The Super

Bowl, then, is a holy day of obligation, the culmination of pseudo – spiritual season.

    Laid out on tables on the floor TV rooms are cheese, sausage and cracker platters;

sliced up tortilla pin wheels; burritos; nacho bars; ranch and bean dips; snack mixes;

and pizzas. My friend Mike and I, though not huge sports ball followers, used the day

as an excuse to glut out. I don’t think I watched a minute of the game, but I got on the

elliptical right after to burn off my hedonistic splurge. Go Chiefs?!

    Federal holidays also cause a frenzy over popcorn and Sno-cones. On Memorial Day,

The 4th of July and Labor Day, rec workers roll out the ice shaving machine, stacks of 

paper cones, a massive chest full of ice cubes, and jugs of syrups ranging from root beer

to cherry flavors to the yard. 80’s and 90’s rock covers pulse from the speakers of prison bands 

under the pavilion. Hordes of guys flood the yard, salivating for a cold and sweet afternoon 

respite. The lines are long; it feels like half the compound is outside. As one man wryly

observed, “you’d think they were handing out pardons with those cones.” Some bring

out their own mugs and fill them to the brim. Some drown their ice crystals with a

prism of syrup; others give a couple quick pumps of one flavor. Settling into a sugar

coma, many stick around to hear local guitar heroes belt out Journey, Metallica, Green

Day and the Cake. The rec workers are left to clean up murder scene splatters of

viscous greens, blues, yellows and reds covering the pavement.

Every holiday, the smell of fresh and hot popcorn spreads through indoor rec from the

glass plated paper operated by another cadre of rec workers. They scoop and stable

the fluffy morsels into familiar red and white bags, one you’d get at a circus or

carnival. Like so many jobs, they make a side hustle out of it, selling garbage bags sized

portions to ravenous customers, wanting to sate their popcorn penchant. It's not the

popcorns nor the snow cones quality that drive people's craving. It's their brief

novelty, a sense of scarcity, they're ephemerality. FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out) is out in

full force. Medical staff also use popcorn as a proverbial carrot, cajoling grown men to

get their COVID shot or fill out a health survey, with surprising success. The siren song

of exploded buttery kernels lures even strong vaccines skeptics.

    The reality of scarcity and limited resources doesn't limit cuisine made on the unit; in

fact, it fosters creativity. This parallels the culinary experiences of many cultures across

time and place. Soul food spawned from what was available to the enslaved and their

descendants. Indigenous dishes feature what is growing and living by habitat and

season. A finite pantry leads to innovation. Incarcerated cooks laders are confined to

the current commissary list, holdovers from prior lists, contraband kitchen food, and

fortuitous discoveries.

    The Fed Med commissary, to an outside eye, seems well stocked with meats,

condiments, rice, tortillas, soups, beans, cheeses, cookies, crackers, candies, and drinks

galore. Compared to other BOP locations lists, though, it's like an Old West general

store on the frontier instead of others super Walmart choices. New transfers will pop

out their old joints order form, and guys crowding around, will ogle and drool as they

dream up what culinary delights they could whip up with those ingredients. Having

four choices of an item seems like a Russian gulag when others have eight options.

    On especially favorable days, inmate transfers bring in the actual goods as imports

for sale in the prison economy. These incarcerated Marco Polos introduce exotic fare

to compound chefs eager for variety. A week after my May 2021 arrival, JC, a transfer

from FCI Lompoc in California, had property arrive in three unassuming cardboard

boxes. As we carried them to his bunk, guys, like sharks smelling blood in the water,

circle his bunk. He pulls out large Hershey’s bars, macro and menudo packages,

squeezable cream cheese, jars of onion powder and red pepper, and can of salsa

Verde. Like a street bizarre half across the world, men wave wads of stamps in JC's face, 

attempting to nab a deal to stock their lockers. Needing to downsize, JC

acquiesces, his surplus merchandise picked clean by the vultures, and he made bank.

I've heard of a bag of Doritos once went for the equivalent of $10.

    Commissary features both well-known American brands and ones while obscure to

the general public, are you in state and federal prisons. Smucker's Jelly, Kraft ranch,

Hostess cherry pies, and Diet Coke. These comestibles are tethered to consumer

culture, objects of nostalgia from years prior to incarceration. Besides these iconic

offerings, though, prisoners have names like Keefe coffee, Cactus Annies tortilla chips,

Whole Shebang snack mix, Moon Lodge pretzels, and Bear Creek cappuccino. All of

these brands and companies cater specifically to the incarcerated millions nationwide

and profit from the prison industrial complex. On a positive side, these prison brands

are generally cheaper than mainstream ones, even with the 30% markup added by the

local institution, money that goes to pay inmate wages and recreation equipment

updates. Plus, they're tasty. All Shebang products features a singular flavor, in the

amalgam of salty, sour, sweet, and spicy sprinkled generously in a bag of chips or

other snackage. The taste can be divisive as sweet Pickles and black licorice though.

For me, it's a rave in my mouth; for others, it's the mugging of the taste buds.

    With ingredients in total, jailhouse chefs are ready to transform them into entrees,

apps, desserts, and snacks. Of course, real knives aren't allowed, so chopping, slicing,

and shredding veggies, meats, and cheeses requires the aid of a plastic ID copy

machine card broken down by a razor. Some resourceful guys transform used Ajax

cleansing powder lids into a cheese grater. Microwaves, once available on the floor,

were removed years ago due to one chef nuking a bowl of rice and beans for an hour,

causing the whole floor to reek of smoke. Reason #2582 of why we can't have nice

things.

    To transform ingredients from their dry, solid, room temperature form into steaming

and molten meals, hot water from a 190-degree temperature dispenser is the top

choice. Placed in trash bags, jumbo mugs, or plastic containers, The Super-hot H2O can

melt cheese, hydrate instant cheese potatoes, and breathe life into preservative laden

packaged meals like cheese ravioli or eggplant parmesan. The dispenser metes out its

contents in scalding temps. My right foot’s scars can testify to this. One evening, my

maladroit self spilled a whole mug of newly poured hot chocolate on my shoe. During

high demand hours, namely late afternoons and evenings, the reservoir depletes

quickly with water temps lukewarm enough to make a cup of tepid instant coffee.

    For those who want to forgo the long water wait, there are other ways to bring the heat.

One is the Stinger. This contraption is created by taking a power cord, cutting through it to

expose the wires, and bolting a metal switch plate to them. To make them requires cutting a

cord used for another purpose, usually for a machine or appliance. It also involves paying

stamps to the electrician and welding crews to obtain and attach the metal plate. Once made,

a prison cook plugs it in and places it in a trash can full cooking oil, smuggled from the kitchen.

In essence, you're MacGyvering a Fry Daddy. Plopped in the heated oil are burritos and

strombolis, their outsides crisped to a golden brown, their contents melted and congealed as

one. Continued frying will eventually crack the trash can. That and the potential for fire makes

stingers illegal, and if you are found with one, it means a trip to the S.H.U. Where you for sure

won't be chowing down on burritos. This doesn't stop their use, and stingers are stowed in

mattresses and sheets. Irons not only helped to smooth out khakis, but they also serve as a

Panini press for grilled sandwiches. Because of this temptation, irons are locked to a metal k

frame, so they don't walk off.

To chill sodas, milks, whipped up desserts, and kitchen contraband, and other perishables, ice

is your only choice. Similar to a hotel lobby sans overpriced vending machines, two ice

machines supply 150+ guys’ cooling needs. Bowls, jumbo mugs, trash cans and the bags act as

mini fridges. On hot July days, the frozen chips of relief are at a premium, the machines

barely able to keep up with demand.

    While some men here are master prison chefs and could pen cookbooks of their

carceral concoctions, I’ve mastered one: No Bake Peanut K Butter Bars. Unlike some food

bloggers, I’ll spare you the exposition narrative. – I ‘ve shared plenty already- and go straight to

the recipe.

No -Bake Prison Peanut Butter Cookies

Servings: Eight wedges ( or one for the gluttons out there)

Ingredients

-six bags of instant oatmeal

-three-second squeezes from a bear-shaped bottle

-three sugar-free “maple” syrup packages swiped from the kitchen

- three heaping spoonfuls of French Vanilla creamer

-1/4- jar of Peter Pan peanut butter (or whatever brand’s on commissary)

- one smashed up candy bar/handful of M&M’s or whatever’s on commissary.

Supplies

-three plastic bowls with lids

-one rubber band- one you swiped from a kitchen worker or a pile of books shipped to you.

- a couple pair of latex gloves, swiped from the kitchen or your floor’s orderlies

-two spoons, one for scooping and one for stirring

-half a bowl of hot water from the dispenser(it needs to be steaming, so do this all at like 1PM

when water demand is low)

-two bowls of ice; avoid peak demand times

-two trash bags, also swiped from an orderly

-one copy of ID card to cut cookie Into wedges

Directions

1. Assemble your ingredients, on your counter (the top of your locker).

2. Go to closet and fill bowl half with water.

3. Create a double boiler by placing the second bowl on top of the first bowl. Use

Tupperware type that stack.

4. Put on latex gloves for semi-cleanliness and sanitation for your health and avoiding

judgment of other looking at you.

5. Open and add “maple syrup “packets; Squeeze out honey, and spoon in the French

Vanilla creamer and peanut butter.

6. Hope that the water below is still hot enough and whisk vigorously with plastic spoon.

7. When mixture has viscosity of the glaze they use on the doughnuts in the kitchen (If

you haven't gone, get your *** out of bed at 6:00 AM and go)

8. Slowly add in the packages of oatmeal, slowly stirring it with the cheap commissary

plastic spoon.

9. Give up on stirring with easily breakable spoon and use your gloved hands to mix and

need into a ball.

10. Take off your hot mess gloves and go to the garbage closet to toss them.

11. Take time to explain what you’re making to your neighboring bunkie with boundary

issues as you put on new gloves.

12. Come up with an excuse to stop his 15-minute tangents about how his mom never made

cookies and drank all the time.

13. Take chosen chocolate bar and mush it into the ball of gooey goodness; flatten down

the ball even into the bowl.

14. Remove gloves; dump out new lukewarm water from the bowl; take it in 3rd bowl to

ice machines and fill both halfway.

15. Return to the “counter”; Place one ice bowl under bowl with cookie; place one trash

bag on top of mixture and put second ice bowl was lit on top.

16. Use two rubber bands to bind bowls; Wrap it all in second trash bag and store under

your bunk for 20 minutes to chill and firm.

17. Remove bags, rubber bands and ice bowls, which are now melting; use ID tag to cut

cookies into 8 wedges.

18. Eat some yourself and share with neighbor with mommy issues out of sympathy (Or

forget him and gorge on the whole batch).

19. Clean up after yourself.

While that seems elaborate, my gastronomic adventure is facile compared to the

prison cheesecakes, brownies, taffies, pizza, burritos and nachos I've seen carried

down hallways. I asked Steven Strobel, the cheesecake king on my floor, to share his

recipe with me. He shared his insight below.

Prison cheesecake

Nondairy Creamer is the miracle ingredient that allows a wide variety of desserts from

glazes to marshmallow fluff to taffy. The most commonly seen concoction here is

“cheesecake” and even these come in a variety.

The first is much more work but resembles a traditional cheesecake and it is closer in

flavor.

Ingredients

1-2 Oz of lemon juice

Block of cheese from commissary

-8 oz of non-dairy creamer

-crust material

- single serving of drink mix

Directions

1. Make crust. Set aside.

2. Dice cheese

3. Pour in lemon juice

4. Work cheese until broken down

5. Mix in ½ of creamer; stir until well-blended

6. Stir in rest of creamer

7. Add drink packet to taste

8. Pour mix into crust; chill 1 hr.

This is a very thick and sticky recipe, so switch arms quickly.

The second recipe:

Ingredients

-12 oz non-dairy creamer

- 4 oz. Milk

-3-4 single serving drink packets (must have citric acid)

-crust material

Directions

1. Make crust. Set aside.

2. Pour creamer and drink mix in bowl

3. Pour in milk

4. Stir until evenly blended

5. Pour into crust. Chill 1 hr.

This is a much floppier creation because more air gets trapped. It is also faster to make and

easier on the arm.

    Pizza making is done by committee. Flour tortillas, cut into pieces, are compressed together

on a cardboard box fashioned from a one by two-foot sheet covered with plastic. This forms the crust.

Then a sauce, either commissary BBQ or kitchen contraband marinara, is smeared on top

followed by shredded cheese, onions, and meat sprinkled generously. No oven available, guys

eat the pizza at room temperature. A contingent of Hispanics make a mega Grande Nacho

platter, covering a small table on the unit with a trash bag, spreading out chips, and layering

cheese sauce, and jalapenos, and seasoned meat. It looks like a prison paella, except much

more artery clogging. Prison tamales come to life by replacing masa with crushed up tortilla

chips or pork rinds and corn husks with plastic wrap. Meats, cheeses, spices, peppers, and

onions are mixed together. That's then spooned onto the crushed tortilla chips. It's all rolled

and wrapped tightly and placed into a container of hot water to cook. Delicious, none of these

creations are salubrious. The commissary list is no Whole Foods. The vast majority of products

are laden with multisyllabic preservatives, artificial colors and flavors, sugars, oils, and salt.

The two “vegetables” on the list are sodium soaked pickle and a Giordano mix- A condiment 

of olives, celery, and peppers packed in oil. The most” natural” products include instant oatmeal, 

instant white rice, mackerel, and tuna. Even these are processed for shelf life. Still, some guys 

with refined or picky palates live off a diet of commissary creations like burritos, rice bowls, nachos, 

ramen soups and kosher meals like stuffed chicken. A look at the nutrition facts on the honey 

bun, one of the most popular treats currently reveals 710 calorie fat and sugar bomb.

    The deleterious effects of such dietary choices over years and even decades of incarceration

are very visible at Fed Med. Guys with dialysis ports in their arms, missing limbs from type 2

diabetes, a prescription cocktail for hypertension, and mobility issues due to obesity abound

here. These harbingers don't sway those who bring up “Santa Claus Bags” of chow purchased

weekly. America's prisons are disproportionately filled with blacks and Hispanic populations.

On the outside, these demographics are also disproportionately affected by diet related

diseases like the ones I mentioned earlier. Access to healthy food in the “food deserts” many

hail from creates diet habits that transfer here. For those who grew up with food insecurity,

the pendulum of feast or famine, bare cupboards or stuffed pantries, it's ingrained to eat

food when it's available. Living in the moment by scarfing down and stocking up makes

survival sense when you don't know when it'll show up again. Admittedly, food is one broken

link in the tenuous chain of many’s health and wellness. Lack of access to screenings and

checkups, trauma, environmental stressors, substance abuse, and inactivity also contribute to

the weathered and weak physical states of many here. Still, if food is indeed medicine as

Greek philosophers argued many are ingesting poison slowly.

    The Bureau of Prisons is not blind to this and other health related issues affecting their

charges‘ past, present, and future quality of life. Part of the First Steps Act evidence based

recidivism reduction programs focus on health habits including diet; however like many of B.

O. P.‘s programming options, there are empty calories in a person's growth. You ingest them,

but they provide little enrichment. Most of these classes like Healthy Eating consist of a rec

aide popping in a DVD of a person lecturing. There is no active participation, discussion,

reflection, or implementation of what's on the screen. The assessment includes a pre and post

test administered on day one of the class, the answer is given by the rec aid for the post test.

Do you actively listen to the advice meted out, if they attend subsequent classes at all. For

many, these classes are hoops to jump through, checkmarks to put on your file to reduce your

security status, earned time off your sentence, or increase halfway house chances. The same

food habits, wise or unwise, typically follow them out the door.

    There is a better model. In Norway’s incarceration system, one of the most progressive in the

world, those houses are required to make the most of their meals. They, however, have a

kitchenette on each unit with a stove and sink. They work with real pots and pans. They, even

violent offenders, have access to chopping knives, under staff supervision. Their commissary is

a mini market with fresh produce and whole grains they purchase with a debit card loaded

with funds from the prison job. This is empowerment; this is self-respect; this truly instills

healthy eating habits and life skills. All of this required Norway to take a leap in public

imagination and investment in updated facilities, resources, and programming. In the long

term, this along with many other paradigm shifts, drop their recidivism rate substantially,

saving the public money in the long term. True preventative health care also saves money by

reducing the need for medications, surgeries, treatments, equipment, and chronic care. Most

people, I believe, truly do want to cook nutritious, delicious and balanced meals. Many simply

need the resources, knowledge, and encouragement to do so.

    Some do make changes in their eating habits here. J.C., whom I mentioned earlier,

transferring in with coveted items, has lost more than 120 pounds in five years. He is still on

dialysis, but he's been able to come off several other medications with dietary changes; he

feels more energetic and empowered. My friend Mike, over 10 years, has lost 100 pounds while

incarcerated. In his late 60s now, he's in the best shape of his life. I've lost 70 pounds and

maintained in two plus years of incarceration. Food and I had been in a long tango. We have

each taken turns leading. In times of stress, loneliness, dis-ease food controlled the pace, the

time, the place, and the “play list” of my consumption. I ate to be comforted, to forget, and to

feel complete. Soon after “the music” ended I was left alone, filled full but not fulfilled. I

have also taken down the tempo to enjoy the process of cooking and consuming, and learned

when to take a break and be with my feelings and listen to them instead of turning up the

volume with salt and sugar. Since my teens, food and I have switched off who controls whom

several times. Just when I have thought I’ve mastered the steps to healthy eating, life puts on

a new song that causes me to lose my footing. When I was arrested in January of 2020, the

uncertainty of my future led to stress eating, especially late at night when I was most alone

with my anxiety. I wasn't hungry for food, hunger for certainty and stability. Boxes of crackers,

bags of chips, and plates of spaghetti provided a ritualistic anchor, at least in the temporary.

With my sentence and placement came some closure and clarity. My arrival at Fed Med

brought routine and time to slow down and take the lead in my winding waltz with grub. The

goal now is to maintain my balance even when life plays an inevitable unexpected tune.

    There are plenty of opportunities to practice keeping steady in the face of change. Just like

the popcorn and snow cones on holidays, the infatuation with the novel also spikes when a

new commissary list comes out every quarter. Much like public frenzy over the seasonal

pumpkin spice latte or McRib, guys eagerly await for the release of the new ice cream flavor

whether it's a butter pecan or double fudge walnut. Whatever flavor it is, lack of refrigeration

forces men to scarf down the pint shortly after the 8:00 AM purchase before it melts. I've

limited myself to 2 pints a year to commemorate my six month and one-year milestones here.

This quarter saw the introduction of Pay Days, Twizzlers, Skittles, Hostess cherry pies, Zebra

cakes, and Dr. Pepper. All were hot ticket items their first week out. Gone, though were Coke,

Reese’s pieces, Swiss rolls, Three Musketeers, Whopper and Nutty Buddies.

    Entrepreneurs on a floor will buy up products and run a store out of their lockers, Typically

specializing in a few items that they sell for stamps. For those low on cash but flush with

stamps, this is a work around to satisfy their cravings. Also, instead of having to purchase a

whole case or box, you can go to the “store man” for one Coke, pop tart or granola bar to

tide you over. Once an item goes off commissary list or is temporarily of stock, guys can 

and will hike their prices and expand their profit margins. It's a macroeconomic living laboratory 

of supply and demand. The luring threat of a lockdown or commissary restrictions due to a fight 

happening or contraband found also gives the “store men” a lucrative market. They do stock up at their 

own risk, though. When a shake down happens, a C.O. can and sometimes will confiscate any items over 

the quantity you‘re allowed to have. So far, I've avoided the “store man." From prior lockdowns, I've 

learned to keep a bag of coffee and creamer on hand in case a fight over TV's ensues or hooch turns up in 

a communal trash can. Reason #4917 why we can’t have nice things.

    Despite some inmates view that all staff are unfeeling automatons, they are indeed human

and thus have to eat too. They, at least those who work the day shift, are well fed over the

lunch hours thanks to the officer’s mess or O. M. Program. This culinary arts apprenticeship

includes 10 men, donning maroon chef’s jackets, prep, cook, and serve salads, entrees, and

desserts during the weekdays. The program also includes a barista component, so staff can

drop by in the morning for their white flat latte or vanilla cappuccino with extra foam. Sadly,

there's no tip jar to put in stamps. Don't feel too sorry for the O. M. Staff, though. The guys,

having access to ingredients that the chow hall doesn't, have their own lucrative hustles going

on. For C. O.’s working the evenings or overnight, their go to vittles are usually sack lunches

they bring in and consume in the solitude of their floor offices. Occasionally, the recycling

crew, charged with sorting through the trash, will find uneaten pizza, egg McMuffins, or

Subway sandwiches, all brought in. My friend Mike once found a bag of Starbucks grounds

that he used to make some cold brew. Typically, the recycling crew will avoid chowing down

on half eaten sandwiches; however, one man, Dan, is known for devouring anything that

comes through, cutting off the bitten, saliva saturated areas. His microbial must secretly

loathe him.

    Along with future jobs, plans, travel, and goals, visions of victuals post incarceration fill

conversations. Cooking magazines act as springboards to the imagination of what could be

and what will be. Gazing at images and accompanying recipes transport men outside the

reality behind the walls. This is akin to men pouring over fashion, homes and gardens, in

lifestyle magazines. Guys, preparing for release to halfway house or home confinement, often

share what the first restaurant they'll stop at and what they'll order. Some want a Big Mac;

Others crave Chick-fil-A tenders; a few pine for a Subway sandwich. Others compile a list of

dishes they're eager to cook. I yearn to reunite with family over the potato salad, green bean

casserole, and cookies my grandmother used to make for family gatherings. I’ll relish making a

big pot of vegetarian curry, black bean and sweet potato empanadas, lemon garlic pasta, and

mushroom and spinach lasagna. I'll sing with the broccoli, cauliflower, and berries available to

me. I'll rejoice in being entrusted to prepare food with real knives again.

    Food forms, maintains, and influences identity. It can be life giving, bond creating, memory

inducing, or health wrecking. As my friend Jeannie says when inviting friends together for a

cookout, attend a fish fry, or meet at a restaurant, “you gotta eat somewhere”. For men at

Fed Med, food can be something they control when so much is dictated. You can choose

what food to buy, what meal to go up for, when you eat, how you season, whom you cook or

share food with, and why you abstain or indulge in dishes. 

    Like many aspects of life, incarceration has given me a new perspective on food. I'd like to 

think I've become more mindful, grateful and intentional with my relationship with what 

sustains me. I hope these qualities stick with me once I leave Fed Med. I know that pedestrian 

popcorn will carry extra meaning; I will forever associate coffee creamer as a versatile ingredient. 

Spaghetti will take me back to the first day of my stint. I’ll cherish sitting down at a cantina 

with friends, sipping "margs" and chomping on chips again.