August 24, 2016 Article

The Old Coot’s last meal issue.

By Merlin Lessler

Have you ever been out to dinner with menu-challenged people? Ones who can’t decide what to order, who keep sending the waiter or waitress away, “I haven’t decided yet. Give me a few more minutes.” A few minutes turns into 20 minutes, or more. That’s when I ask, “So what time is your execution scheduled for?” To which I get the reply, Execution? What are you talking about?”

I should shut my mouth right then, but I don’t. “I thought you were trying to decide what your last meal will be, and think that you have to get it right because you’re never going to eat again.” Don’t try this tactic. It isn’t going to get you the result you want. Just the opposite! First, you’re going to get, THE LOOK, from your wife, followed by a kick in the shin under the table. She’s not the one who is meal-ordering challenged, but she’s on their team and will join in the delay and say, “I think I’m going to reconsider my order. I’d made up my mind, but now I want to look through the menu again.” That’s when I realize I’m all alone in my quest to eat soon.

I can’t relate. I know what I want before I get out of the car. I have an acute case of old coot dining out syndrome. I only order maybe five things: a hamburger, spaghetti and meat balls, pizza. Well, I guess that’s three things. I hate menus that are more than a page long. Each additional page adds five minutes to the group ordering process. Ten pages, fifty minutes. Longer, if you are with a death row patron ordering their last meal.

I liked what and how Kelly Gissendanger from Georgia ordered for her last meal in September 2015. She knew exactly what she wanted and wasn’t going to be enticed to try something new, like I am every once in a while, only to pledge to go back to my “favorite three” the next time. She ordered two Whoppers, two large fries, bell peppers, salad with boiled eggs, cherry vanilla ice cream, cornbread and a side of buttermilk. I was near Georgia at the time of her execution, driving my car and listening to a local afternoon radio news show. The pundits went nuts. “What is she thinking? Why not a nice steak dinner, lobster, anything but fast food.” Kelly knew what she liked and stuck with it, driving the media crazy. Then, they started in on how unhealthy her food choices were. “That’s a 4,200 calorie meal,” one of the reporters opined. I yelled at the car radio, like I often do. “Come on! It’s her last meal, who cares if it’s unhealthy.” They creamed her for her politically incorrect last meal, yet hardly mentioned that she hired someone to kill her husband. I was critical of her too; she left out spaghetti and pizza.

Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com