A young man — a husband, father, son, brother, friend, and the son-in-law of a good friend of mine — passed away suddenly this week of a previously unsuspected heart condition. And it started me thinking of the unpredictability of life, and from there my mind wandered into the category of what my last wishes would be if I knew my exact expiration date.

But since none of us do know that (unless we’re contemplating suicide, which I most definitely am not), and therefore not knowing how much time I might have left to make plans, I decided to focus on something readily attainable: food.

Which in turn reminded me of my late mother and her very simple last-meal request (which, sadly, remained unfulfilled). She had spent her entire life dieting — when younger, because she had an obsessive fear of gaining weight — and she stayed pretty much at 98 pounds throughout her adult life, which was fine because she was barely five feet tall. And when she was older, and had had a heart attack and suffered from elevated cholesterol, she developed a neurotic anxiety about fats — the kind to be found in the foods we eat. So she wouldn’t eat anything that was reputed to contain high levels of animal fat, such as beef, pork, egg yolks, and dairy. She spurned fried or sautéed food, even if it had been cooked in healthy vegetable oils, because she was sure that heating it somehow made the good oil bad. In short, she drove us all crazy!

But she said that if the time came when she knew she didn’t have long to live, the one thing she wanted us to give her was . . . even now, I feel ridiculous saying it . . . a bologna sandwich. And not just any bologna; it had to be Hebrew National Bologna. Not because it was kosher; it just tasted better. And it had to be on rye bread, with French’s yellow mustard. Forget about a steak dinner, baked potato loaded with butter and sour cream, and cheesecake for dessert. To her, bologna was better.

So why did that one simple request go unsatisfied? Because we, her family, knew that if we had ever tried to get her to eat a bologna sandwich, she would have assumed she was at death’s door and would have freaked out in ways you can’t even imagine. And when finally, inevitably, it became obvious she was not going to survive the most recent heart attack, she had no appetite for anything . . . not even her beloved bologna sandwich. How sad is that?

Ironically, as I neared the age at which my mother had passed away, circumstances caused me to have to modify my diet — not as crazily as she did, but with some minor adjustments. A loss of mobility has also made it impossible for me to stand for hours and cook the way I used to. But I refuse to suffer the same “bologna sandwich” fate that she did. So I hereby submit my menus for my final days. (I will leave the recipes and instructions behind, just in case.) As you will see, a plain old sandwich just won’t cut it.

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For the main course, let’s start with rolled cabbages, made the way my Ukrainian grandmother taught my mother and she taught me: with an all-beef filling and a sweet-and-sour tomato sauce gravy flavored with sour salt (citric acid) and white sugar — no lemon juice or brown sugar, if you please. And this dish stands alone; no sides are needed, but some good rye bread for dunking is always welcome.

Next, there’s pot roast. Chuck is my first choice, with brisket a close second, though the latter is leaner and not as tender and needs to be cooked a little longer. Either cut must definitely be braised and roasted with potatoes, carrots and onions, and a rich beef broth gravy. A cast iron Dutch oven works best for this.

And one more: Oddly, a Thanksgiving dinner, the way my family used to do it, because it’s always been my favorite holiday. There’s turkey, of course, but with my mother’s cracker stuffing, my home-made cranberry sauce (I’ll leave some in the freezer), sweet potatoes (no marshmallows or nuts), Brussels sprouts (and green beans for those who can’t stand the sprouts), rolls and butter, and for dessert the requisite pumpkin pie with mounds of whipped cream, but also an apple pie for those who prefer it. I’ll have a sliver of each.

*. *. *

And for dessert with the first two dinners: Tiramisu. I once spent an entire year making the rounds of the Washington, D.C. area’s many fine restaurants, searching for the best tiramisu. I gained ten pounds, but I finally found it . . . and then the restaurant closed its doors. Just coincidence, I’m sure. But to this day, I dream about that tiramisu, and I would love a nice hunk of it (or a reasonable facsimile) to top off those first two meals, please.

But wait . . . there’s more. It is my one guilty pleasure to this very day. No matter how un-hungry I may be, I end each day with a 3.6-ounce cup of Haagen-Dazs coffee ice cream. It must be Haagen-Dazs, and if it’s not coffee, I get cranky. It’s just the best stuff in the world. So why the little cups? Two reasons. First, because I’m too lazy to scoop frozen-solid ice cream from a big container every night. And second, portion control, of course. Not so much for the calorie count, but the excess of caffeine in a bigger serving of the coffee late at night would seriously have me staring at the ceiling until dawn, and has done so more than once.

And there is a third reason: Somehow, tauntingly, I find that leaving myself wanting just a little bit more makes the next night’s treat that much better.

*. *. *

And there you have it: the simple, folksy, somewhat plebeian (except for the tiramisu) means of ensuring that I make my final exit from this world with a big, satisfied smile on my face, and most likely a resounding belch from my . . . well, from wherever belches originate. I’m not in any hurry, though, so don’t rush off to the market just yet. But please do keep it in mind for the future.

Oh, by the way, I always have a supply of ice cream in the freezer. Help yourself to any extras. And thanks.

Brendochka
4/6/24

P.S. To the young man who is no longer with us: Requiescat in pace.