World's Best Prison Food

Prison is hot right now. (Really hot, in a lot of prisons. During the summer, many prisons may exceed a hundred degrees. This has been a big deal.) I can't see this being for any reason other than the existence of "Orange is the New Black," just as there was a renaissance of cultural interest in prisons when "Oz" debuted years ago on HBO. A main subplot early in Season One concerns a vindictive kitchen head "starving out" the protagonist for a perceived slight. The characters of Oz also used kitchen access as a means of moving contraband, as well as a means to murder each other.

Now that I'm thinking more about prison, just like everyone else with Netflix, which is everyone else, I decided to look into the reality of prison food. Kitchen shankings and drug trafficking make fine mass entertainment, but what of the more quotidian realities of prison dining? And ultimately, which prison has the best food? I feel naked without Yelp reviews. Luckily, many prisoners are at their wittiest when describing the fare they are forced to rely upon for every meal. I can't safely link any such inmate food ruminations, but they're out there. One cleaner-than average meatball review on a prisoner's blog stated, "I joke to my cellmate that they taste like an entire groundhog was put through a wood chipper, and with the help of some soy emulsifier, made into meatballs."

It may never be "destination fare," but the world's prisons serve a wide variety of food. After all, a man's gotta eat. (A woman's also gotta eat, but a prisoner is about ten times more likely to be a man.) The pesky necessity of regular food consumption takes on a whole new dimension when a population cannot acquire its own food. The consensus, of course, is that the food falls neatly between "barely edible" and "weapon of mass demoralization."

Blast freezing. Snap-freezing, or "cook-chill," which should not be confused with a chili cook-off. "For institutional use only." Prison food is so unique and alien that it requires a whole different lexicon. Cook-chill describes a process wherein food is cooked in shallow trays en masse, then cooled to just above freezing for transport. The food is then reheated when ready for consumption. So the entire prison population is essentially eating leftovers, unless they have enough money to buy other food.

Dietary and religious accommodations are made to a limited degree in U.S. prisons. While one may not be guaranteed healthy, edible chicken in prison, one can be guaranteed kosher beverages. You can't be sure what meat you're eating, but you can be sure it's halal, upon request. America.

American prisons can't provide meals that conflict with a prisoner's religious affiliation. That doesn't mean they can't yank a meal away altogether.  

Many prisons are replacing cold cuts with budget cuts. Texas, the executin'ist state in the union, finally decided that death row inmates would not receive a last meal, as of 2011. This makes sense, but if you ask me, it's a slippery slope. The last meal may be a "waste," but what about the second-to-last? 2011 also saw Texas delivering its brand of big justice to another, less likely culprit: lunch. Breakfast and lunch have become one, albeit reluctantly. (This is a concept familiar to most Texans.) Yes, Texan inmates can join the ranks of late risers and hipster buffet enthusiasts everywhere, as they now have Brunch.

American prisons have idiosyncrasies, like freedom of religion, but they really can't touch the luxury of (some of) their international cousins. So... who has the best prison food?

Bastoy Prison, about an hour from Oslo, Norway, is probably the top contender. While doing your Norwegian maximum sentence of up to 21 years, you can enjoy tennis, saunas, and cross country skiing. Which already makes the food taste better.Why is there room for all that in a prison? Because the prison is an island of cottages housing many dangerous criminals, all of whom have jobs integral to the self-sustaining island community. How's the food? It's hard to say exactly, but we know they serve salmon, chicken, and fish balls. Given the prison's general vibe as an ultra-humane antithesis of our prisons, and the fact that the food is prepared by a chef, it's probably pretty good. What's more, the prisoners can and must prepare two of their three daily meals. With a daily $10-$20 earning potential through their jobs, the inmates have access to some very decent fare from the commissary.

The bottom line here is the same bottom line you're likely to find in many other situations: don't go to prison.




A Health and Beauty Aisle Fantasia


Sunday: for many people, a day of rest and reflection. For me, these concepts are not always the most congenial bedfellows. What to do with Sunday... as I lather my hands with a generous blob of "A La Maison" Rosemary Mint hand soap, it's clear to me I should go purchase more soap. I've got plenty, but a little stroll through Foods For Living's Health and Beauty Aisle couldn't hurt...

I love soap as much as music, and that's OK, but there was a time when I thought it wasn't. Nowadays, you'll often find me in FFL's Health and Beauty Aisle, inhaling lemongrass and lavender oil, masquerading as a well-adjusted person. I'm at peace with it. Let me explain.

Even in this digital age, I love looking at CDs (especially at local antiquated media stores like FBC). There is something fundamentally appealing about the way the titled spines fill the boxes in perfect uniformity while the print upon them is a wild spectrum of color and purpose. Unknown metal bands with their names in runic fonts somehow both austere and hokey. The more obscure the band, the wilder the proclamation, right down to the local acts with unutterable blasphemies screaming across their jewel cases.
            One part of the satisfaction I get from this perusal is the predictable pleasure of cultural tourism, sifting through this torrent of sound, both familiar and alien, with my fingertips. When it comes to shaving off the hours, to finding something a tune to whistle at the bus stop until that final number 13 comes droning out of the fog for me, CD browsing is fantastic. If asked why I enjoy it, I would reply—unreflectively—that I like music as both a sensual experience and as a cultural artifact, and so I like looking at it, picking it up, turning it over in my hands. I would say this while holding a hopefully unreflective jewel case in my hands, maybe (already) squinting at the fine print to see if someone interesting maybe played the panflute on Track 8.

A Socratically persistent person may ask if I were any more or less happy combing through the daunting array of available shampoos and essential oils in the Health and Beauty Aisle of Foods For Living. Of course, it would make me seem like a buffoon (or at least unemployed) to straight-up admit that I could easily be lost for the better part of an hour in the forest of handmade bar soap there, that I could be transported to regions antipodal to everyday experience, if only for a second, by smells lacking any natural analogue.

This hypothetical prosecutor of my secret self may note how nothing about my love of secondhand music perusal involves actually listening to the music.

For a long time I thought I had a pathological need to browse, with bouts of accompanying retail therapy. If something as respected and abstract as music could just as easily be replaced by a tray full of food-grade, local, organic essential oils (wink), was I not merely a simpleton with a need to cruise the shelves? Maybe. But I no longer think of it that way.
I love the shampoo shelf more than I could ever love a particular bottle of the stuff. And as much as I may love a particular album, it is ultimately not the Known—the treasured and Already Owned—that drives my compulsion to consume. The urge to stop and smell the rose-scented lotion surfaces anytime I am not engaged with something more pressing. The context changes, but the urge does not.
The immensity of life cannot be approached in any given moment. We dare not. The Bilderbergers, Higgs boson, Osiris, quanta, 14 billion eyes, the thousand lives one will never lead, who, thanks to fiction, you can still dive half inside and come out of face first and more terrified, the mortal reality of the life you dove into fiction to escape in the first place, refocused and more immediate than ever…but the shampoo gives one little pieces. LorAnn Oils can summon the mind to distant shores with a breath. Sandalwood can be a memory, or a half-memory and a puzzle. Knowing that such journeys wait inside each bottle, I can rarely stop before whiffing at least a dozen.

On the surface it’s easy to cast myself as a victim of consumer culture. It’s easy to imagine my infant body as an undiscovered island, the conquistadors of shiny new things planting flags of desire and fear in my young mind. Baby Me, all pudge and unbridled want, hears his first commercial on a hospital TV before his eyes ever open. Strangers in conference rooms are parsing and mapping Baby Me’s brain, so that when I am old enough to be “self-sufficient,” I can trade in my time for some money, and trade in the money for some goods and services, and these people can take my money and trade it in for some time of their own. It's a fine system. It’s easy to see these advertisers as vultures or puppet masters. A little too easy. I no longer see this as anyone's fault, or a fault at all.

I no longer feel my compulsion to consume is subtraction from some other, whole person who does not feel he needs to cheat death by delving into shampoo otherworlds and album cover art.

Good soap and delicate incense create miniature universes. They are portals into desert bazaars and hidden groves. Such vials of adventure keep us from grieving overmuch for the aforementioned unlived lives. The world suggested by a colloidal oatmeal exfoliating body scrub isn't a proxy, but a place I wanted to be all along. Holding basil mint soap in my hand while the world around me plods on is terraforming, planewalking, the ingestion of a utopia. And to imagine that 100 such places exist on the same shelf, a whim away from one another...