Burpee, Carpenter & Hutchins Funeral Home

I hired Jimmy at our messenger company the day he got out of prison. It was great having him back, healthy and happy. He worked hard there, eventually becoming a dispatcher. One day, Jimmy announced he longed for the unique taste of prison cuisine. I laughed at the ideas such an oxymoron presented. 

 

"You've never had a prison burrito?" he asked.

 

When I told him I hadn't, he immediately went to the store to collect the eclectic ingredients--most of which I can't remember, but things like canned chilly, processed cheese, and his famous secret ingredient. Jimmy spent a good portion of the afternoon fixing the whole office this delicacy, hyping it up till we all thought we were about to dine on a treat comparable only to lunch at Spago. 

 

When the time came to eat, we bravely sank our teeth into these flaccid tortillas dripping with goo. Jimmy was heartbroken when he saw our mouths pucker up with disgust. 

 

"What's wrong? You don't like 'em?"

 

I had to admit, they were disgusting. 

 

After tasting one, he  agreed, saying maybe it was because he used too much of his "secret ingredient."

 

"You mean cinnamon?" I said."Yeah, way too much."

 

"How did you guess my secret?"

Ignoring this, he took another bite and declared it was the preparation that'd made the burritos foul. 

 

"You see," he said, "we don't use a stove in the joint, we cook 'em on the beds. We roll up the mattresses and heat 'em on the flat metal things that hold up the beds."

 

"Oh, yeah ... of course. That must be it."

 

After a long sigh he said, "Maybe they just tasted better because I was in prison."