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Food

Gym Mats are a Kitchen Necessity for Prison Meals

Somehow I had found myself on the bench of a jail cell learning how to spice up a frozen cheese and mayo sandwich from a woman who uses yoga moves to make a dull sandwich better than before, or grosser than ever.
Foto: Wiki Commons

"You have to lay on it," She said as she sucked methadone out of the sleeve of her pink hoodie and placed a few sandwiches in between two gym mats. Somehow, I had found myself on the bench of a jail cell learning how to spice up a frozen cheese and mayo sandwich. I had opted for the PB&J, a rookie mistake. I don't know why I did it—I don't even like peanut butter—and it wasn't PB&J; it was peanut butter and honey. It was a gooey brown substance on frozen bread that resembled wheat but didn't seem like it should be considered wheat. Was this shit gluten free?

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I was going on hour twenty in prison, trying to stuff the frozen sandwich down my throat before I could taste it when she walked in. Her hair was seemingly wet with grease, her neck covered in hickies, wearing a five-sizes-too-small pink belly shirt and sneakers without laces. Her butt-crack and stomach were hanging out of her diamond-studded True Religion jeans. She came in like a storm. She was given four sandwiches from the prison guard before she entered the cell. They had a long embrace before she sat down near me. I guess she was a regular. She threw her sandwiches onto the floor and ran into the bathroom: an open toilet with a piece of wood in front of it to allow for the smallest amount of privacy possible. As we sat there, I listened to her poop and complain about accidentally dropping a cigarette in there. I stopped trying to eat my meal.

When she re-entered our cell, I was the first person she spoke to after a general "SORRY LADIES" to the group. She asked me why I was there and more importantly, why I wasn't eating. I mentioned that the sandwich was frozen—I couldn't admit that it was because of her lavatory episode. I was trying to make friends. Her pink hoodie was crusted with white debris at the sleeve, a section she wet in the sink and started to squeeze it into a cup, taking moments to suck on the dampened fabric, pausing to graciously explain to me what was happening. She started to make a cup of methadone juice, a mysterious concoction of which I still have no clue what's inside.

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She offered me some of the juice. I declined although weird substances in dirty Styrofoam cups that make you slightly sedated began to seem appealing because I had not seen the outside world in over a day. She shouted to the guard to ask for more mayo. When you get the cheese sandwiches in here, each one arrives with two small packets of mayonnaise. Everyone seemed to get these lunches, despite the fact that it was probably (most definitely) not real cheese. Something about the dairy aspect freaked me out, but an orange slice of cheese started to look appealing when compared to the dollop of suspiciously brown substances on my frozen pieces of bread. All I could think about was the fact that these sandwiches came with mayo instead of mustard. Is mustard more expensive than mayo? I wondered.

There were only three gym mats in the cell used for sleeping purposes. This is crucial, because it's the only way to defrost your meal. It was like having a temperpedic bed while everyone else was on a blow-up mattress. You begin to covet ratty gym mats when you've been attempting to lay on a cold bench for almost 24 hours. I didn't have a gym mat; I fainted when I got into the cell, which ruined all of my credibility to deserve a gym mat. She didn't have one either, but she was offered two for sandwich preparation. She placed her frozen meals between the gym mats and did a resounding belly flop. When the heaters aren't running around here, body heat is the only way to make your sandwich edible. She drifted off to sleep ontop of her mats and gluten-y meal while I dreamed of edible sandwiches from the outside world.

When she finally awoke, I had been staring at the empty box of Corn Pops in the corner leftover from breakfast at 6 AM, fantasizing about them. The guard distributed each meal during designated meal times, and since I had missed this particular breakfast, I've never craved cereal so badly in my life. As she unpacked each sandwich, I realized that the four in her possession weren't just there because she was hungry. They had a purpose. I sat Indian-style on the floor as she came in and out of consciousness, opening the sandwiches one by one. She told me stories about her boyfriend (who had also been arrested) and about the drugs she took before arriving here. She told me to gain weight. We bonded. Opening each sandwich took about 15 minutes for her, with breaks for unconsciousness fading in and out of her methadone haze. Then it was time for the mayo. The guard had brought her 12 packets of mayo along with two cartons of milk and a couple sheets of toilet paper. "Honey, I've been locked out of my house for three days and haven't eaten. These sandwiches are good," she said. I wasn't sold, but I was down to learn something.

She carefully removed the slice of cheese from each sandwich and created a pile on two slices of bread. All I could think about was her previous bathroom issues and what this meal had the potential to cause. After stacking each slice of cheese on top of her freshly defrosted slices of bread, she began to empty each packed of mayo onto another set of empty slices. Every. Single. Packet. There was more mayo and cheese than bread.

There's only one trash can in jail cells. After assessing the sandwich situation, it was decided there wasn't enough cheese. She reached into said trashcan and found three more sandwiches. The cheese from these rejected food items was added to the dysfunctional castle of cheese. It was time to eat. I watched as she paced the cell, eating, falling asleep, fingers dripping in mayo, milk spilling out of the carton.

This happened a few more times before I left. Cheese and mayo will do weird things to a girl. I never tried her version, but I did end up trying a cheese sandwich for dinner. It was as underwhelming as the peanut butter and honey. When I was finally released, I went home and ordered a large pizza, french fries, mozzarella sticks, and onion rings. No mayo included. I feasted on the gooey, greasy, cheesy goodness that required no body heat. It was heaven on earth. I don't know if I'll ever look at a cheese sandwich the same way again.