Truly, the Last Supper

To even speak of one’s last supper is pretty quirky. But when it comes to food, every supper for me is a last supper experience. It sounds a bit morbid, but when my Dad passed this year, my sister and Mercedes, care giver for my parents spoke of Dad’s last meal and how much he and everyone had enjoyed it. The day he died, my sister’s had to go to Los Banos to make funeral arrangements.

I stayed with Mom. We sat by the pool in the warm sun. Mom, very much in shock, innocently showed her great humor. She said, “I can’t imagine your Dad passing. After all, he is younger than me. I always thought I would go first.” He was 90, she 95.

Eventually, lunchtime came and like usual, Mercedes served leftovers, usually last eve’s meal. I knew I would be eating my Dad’s Last Supper. I savored every bite, every morsel, vividly knowing that I was eating his last supper. Somehow, I felt close to him. The very best was Mercedes spinach soup. Here is her recipe.

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