There’s a new book called “My Last Supper,” where 50 chefs are asked to talk about their ideal last meal. Some want caviar, some want Krispy Kremes. Most want their mom’s cooking.
I would have my grandmother’s spaghetti and meatballs.
Don’t ask me how a country mountain girl learned how to make them, but it was an all-day extravaganza. She would stand at the stove for hours, hand-shaping and pan-frying the meatballs, and making the Army-sized pot of sauce from scratch. We would hover around her kitchen, living for the day when we were tall enough to lean over the pot and huff the sauce. Waiting like Pavlov’s dogs for her to pull the hunk of parmesan from the fridge and christen each plate with freshly grated cheese.
The meatballs were so good, I’d eat the spaghetti noodles first and save the meatballs for last, slicing each one into tiny, OCD-worthy slivers to make them last as long as humanly possible.
My grandmother hasn’t made spaghetti and meatballs in a decade. Bad knee. She can barely stand long enough to make a pot of coffee.
She tried to teach the recipe to my mom, but it’s not the same. When Mommaw made the spaghetti and meatballs, she had a singularity of purpose. She wasn’t doing laundry at the same time, or talking on the phone, or checking her eBay alerts. She was making spaghetti and meatballs.
That’s what I’d want for my last supper. Something made with love and attention. Someone giving me their best.
That, or a Krispy Kreme doughnut.
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