This is it, the apocalypse -Imagine Dragons

I see the bad moon arising. I see trouble on the way. -Credence Clearwater Revival

This is the end, Beautiful friend. -The Doors

It’s the end of the world as we know it. -REM

On the highway to hell. -AC/DC

Well, this is it dear readers. The end is nigh.

Now, I’m the last person you would expect to drop social commentary in a friggin’ food blog but even I have sense enough to know that a Donald/Hillary showdown does not bode well for our country as it means one of the four horsemen will have obtained absolute power. Forget the inevitable destruction of this great nation. I’m more in fear of the inevitable destruction of my 4-year-old caboose. Whoever wins, the rest of the world will be laughing, as each country’s heads of state draw straws to determine the lucky winner to set the White House ablaze from of the crosshairs of their scope. And as a resident living within a 20 mile radius of 1600 Pennsylvania Ave, my innocent, mongolian-spotted derriere is sure to feel the burn from DC’s most iconic symbol’s scorching.

I’m essentially a dead TodFoo walking. Which begs the appropriate question – What would my last meal be?

Two years ago it would have been french fries. Hands down. No ifs, ands, or buts (hehe, I said butts).

No ketchup.

Salt? Sure. But not necessary.

French fries were all I lived for. These days I’m not so certain. My palate’s evolution has been a gastronomic adventure since my parents began forcing – sorry, exposing – me to new foods outside of my comfort zone. I’ve learned that my fondness for tomato based pastas are not exactly fond. I’m more partial to cream based. But I’ve been receptive to just about everything else that’s traversed my gullet. So while I ponder what flavors will be the last my taste buds will ever know, let’s delve into my other family members choices, shall we?

My 11-month-old baby brother: This one’s a no brainer. He’ll eat anything. Rice, vegetables, fruits, bread, paper, dirt, balloons, poop. You name it. He’ll eat it. He’s too young yet to know what his culinary inclinations are so let’s just say the last thing he’d probably stuff in his mouth would be his chunky feet and move on.

Mama (aka, The Duchess of Vague): This was her answer verbatim – “I would ask for all kinds of seafood, steak, and a lot of sushi”. This, after she had put some serious thought into her response for a good two minutes. She is the genuine antithesis of…

Daddio (aka, The Duke of Explicit Detail): His read a like 3-Michelin-star menu — One dozen oysters to start with a side of lemon wedges, a light coconut vinegar, and cocktail sauce. A dual entree of Dumaguete Express (a savory coconut milk based stew with fish, shrimp, squid, tomatoes, horseradish leaves, and coconut strips all topped with crispy, grilled pork belly) and a bone-in, grilled, dry-aged, spice-rubbed ribeye with a side of horseradish, bone marrow, and apple truffle mashed potatoes. Dessert was simple — a double fudge brownie with two scoops of mint chocolate chip ice cream. All courses served with a fine, single-malt scotch and dessert with a top shelf cognac.

Dumaguete Express

Dumaguete Express – Dad’s mistress on the side.

Okay. Now for me. Dad’s incredibly long and detailed (did I mention long?) answer allowed me ample time to get this right. And believe it or not, I’m going with fries. Yea, I realize I just dismissed them a few paragraphs ago like a catholic school principle dismisses students at 3 o’clock. But these aren’t your normal fries. These are crispy, gravy-soaked, duck fat-rendered potato sticks intermingled with thick and glorious melted cheese curds. Yup. Poutine. But not just any poutine. I’m talking mom-and-pop-Montreal-based-diner type poutine. The kind that awaken your inner Pepe Le Pew and scream, “Incroyable!” with every bite.

Poutine

Who-tine? Poutine! Courtesy of Jimmy’s Old Town Tavern in Herndon, VA

So that’s it, loyal readers. My last meal. Or perhaps not. Maybe, just maybe I could convince the old man to put his dual US/Canadian citizenship to good use and move us to the land of “oot and aboot” for 4-8 years. What’s a million inches of snow so I can keep this good thing I got going?!

What would your last meal be?

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