A Last Meal

Prisoners slated for execution are, in civilized societies, granted one final meal.

I’m not a prisoner, but tomorrow I will be trapped in the car with the humans as we travel back to the Boring House where the food is so-so at best, and where, no doubt, the Terror Twins have been alternately puking and shedding while a friend has been watching them in our absence.  A gruesome sentence, indeed.

So this, not counting tomorrow’s breakfast is, in a sense, a last meal. 

We who are about to die salute you with fried potatoes

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I could eat all of these myself.  What are the rest of you going to have?

Sigyn is insisting I share.  Sigh.  Very well.  Just for you my love.

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Roast pork, vegetables, braised cabbage, a homemade roll, and those lovely, lovely potatoes. And there is leftover pie.

I will miss this house, where even the placemats have pictures of food.

Now, I am not a praying man because hello?  Actual Norse god here, but if I could think of any deity with more power than me who was worth importuning, I would definitely ask him (or her!) to please let the human female be a better cook in the future.  We have tasted manna on this trip, and to be cast back down to the realm of the hum-drum and the blah feels like damnation indeed.

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