Mr. Rogers yelled across the kitchen at me as he slopped something of a medium gray consistency into a serving tray.You see, when it came to jail food, everything was some shade of gray. Where the geniuses that created the menus got creative was in the consistency. We inmates were blessed with no, medium, heavy, and brick-like consistency for variety.If the time served wasn’t deterrent enough to stay out of trouble on the other side, flashbacks of the food would be enough to keep any man from stealing a subcompact again. In my Immortal, no real need to eat opinion, no food was better than god-awful food. I might have cooked the crap, but I wasn’t dumb or desperate enough to eat it.It helped I was able to gorge on a rainbow of deliciousness at one of my three sisters-in-laws’ every night.“If I wasn’t positive you’re lashing out only because your receding hairline no longer requires a hair net, I’d be dishing out a tongue lashing comeback right about now,” I hollered back, putting my back into stirring the gray slop of a brick-like consistency—soup, is what it was called on the menu—in the metal vat deep enough to hold a man.Mr.
