Prison Ramen: Recipes and Stories from Behind Bars (16 page)

Vegetable oil or more butter, for the cooker

Note:
Most of these ingredients were smuggled from the prison kitchen or brought by a helpful correctional officer.

1. Combine the flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt in a large bowl. Mix well.

2. Stir in the egg, butter, and milk until the batter pours easily and is no longer lumpy. Add a little more milk if necessary. Mix in the Hershey kisses.

3. Heat the cooker and coat with a little vegetable oil.

4. Pour a small amount of batter onto the cooker. If cooking more than one, leave space between them.

5. Cook until bubbles form on top of the pancakes and they’re dry around the edges. Slide a spatula underneath and flip.

6. Cook the other side for about the same amount of time. Serve immediately.

I
n prison, races stick together. You’ll see a bond here that doesn’t quite exist in the same way out in the free world. The whites got a thing they call The Klan, the blacks got the muscle, and the Mexicans got the knives. However, when correctional officers mistreat or disrespect inmates, those inmates can unite in war against the officers. I’m talking inmates banding together, putting race issues aside.

There was one officer in particular who’d always abuse his power. He treated all inmates, all races, the same way—like shit. One day, he messed with the wrong convict. As he was escorting one particular homie out of the cellblock, this escorting officer punched the handcuffed convict right in the face. In seconds, all the nearby inmates who saw it happen—black, white, and Hispanic—jumped on the correctional officer. We were all tear-gassed and all the COs raced to the yard in an attempt to control what was turning into a full-on riot. The convict who had been punched while cuffed had Down syndrome, and he’d been like a little brother to everyone, made mistakes like everyone else. That day, in Corcoran, we all came together.

Standing alone and apart, we’re nothing but puppets, but together we could do some good—even in prison. This Ramen & Bean Jambalaya seems like that. A mixture of odd ingredients apart, but when they come together, you get an amazing dish that blends beautifully.

Ingredients

2 packs any flavor Ramen

1½ cups boiling water

1 can (15 to 16 ounces) hot chili with beans

1 can (15 to 16 ounces) black beans, drained

1 summer sausage (about 9 ounces), chopped, or 1 can (9 ounces) Vienna sausage, drained and chopped

2 jalapeño chiles, chopped

Louisiana or other hot sauce

1. Crush the Ramen in the wrappers and empty into a bowl. Save the seasoning packets for another use.

2. Add the water, cover, and let it sit for 8 minutes.

3. Drain off excess water.

4. Mix the chili, black beans, sausage, and jalapeños in a microwavable bowl.

5. Add hot sauce to taste for an extra kick.

6. Cover and microwave for 3 to 5 minutes, until hot.

7. Add the Ramen. Mix well.

T
here were many snowy nights in Tehachapi State Prison, when the homies and I would hang out around the handball court bleachers, sharing war stories from our youth and reminiscing about the hearts we broke along the way. Some of us were fathers, brothers, sons, and husbands. Some were short-timers, but most of the group were lifers. I was honored that these men would allow me to join their circle. Lifers don’t usually socialize with short-timers. They stay away from guys who have parole dates. It’s about disconnecting with the free world. Not having to hear “When I get out I’m going to . . .” or “I have just a few months left.” These words don’t fit in a lifer’s vocabulary. There are some guys who mix well, of course, but it’s totally up to the lifer who he allows in his circle.

The knowledge and wisdom I gained in prison can be credited to these men. From Big Topo, I learned to attack before I ever had to defend. His advice kept me alive in many questionable circumstances. Fred M. pointed out the key is to never stop learning. Seek out all the schooling you can—formal and informal. And from every lifer, I learned to appreciate my freedom. So, to this day, I find myself drinking a Cadillac every morning and thinking of the times I shared with them, surviving the hellhole, and trying to make sure I never go back.

Ingredients

1 tablespoon instant coffee granules (preferably Taster’s Choice or Folgers)

2 cups boiling water

2 tablespoons sugar

5 tablespoons French vanilla flavor creamer

3 tablespoons honey

1. Place the coffee in a very large mug.

2. Add the water and stir.

3. Add the sugar and creamer and stir.

4. Add the honey and stir some more.

N
ine years after being released from prison, I ended up back on the same road to hell. I wasn’t that naive eighteen-year-old from before. I was just shy of my thirty-third birthday. My tattoos, reminders of my past, had started to fade. I was an adult, a husband, and a father of three kids. I love my kids more than my life and did what any father would do to protect them. For me, that meant carrying a weapon to ward off attacks that often came by complete surprise. And that’s what put me on another long vacation from society—and took me away from my kids.

When I found myself back in that cell, I knew what was coming next. Every moment, every day, my ability to keep cool would be tested. There would be riots, stabbings, and lockdowns. And when there was a lockdown, there would be no communication with my kids.

The shit that hurt the most? Getting letters from my kids. After the correctional officer would drop off the letters, it would take me a moment to open them up. The pain was too much just to see their handwriting. “Miss you Daddy. Please come home. I love you.” The regret was a heavy load to carry. I kept from screaming by remembering the words of another man who had been incarcerated, Nelson Mandela: “There is no easy walk to freedom, anywhere, and many of us will have to pass through the valley of the shadow of death again and again before we reach the mountaintop of our desires.”

Ingredients

6 tablespoons peanut butter

6 slices bread

3 bananas, sliced

2 handfuls M&M’s candy

3 tablespoons honey

1. Spread the peanut butter on each piece of bread.

2. Place the banana slices on top of each piece.

3. Sprinkle the M&M’s over the banana slices.

4. Pour the honey over each slice of bread. Press the slices together to make 3 sandwiches.

5. Cut into quarters and serve.

T
here’s a lot of tension in prison around the end of the year. The weather gets colder, we start going outside less, and then the holidays arrive. They represent more of what we don’t have. All it takes is for one idiot to lose it and start a wildfire. The spark that ignites it could be a bad call on the basketball court, or just a hard look. Anger, resentment, and sadness are released in the form of physical violence. But there were volunteers, particularly around the holidays, who’d bring a little joy, even to the coldest men. They would hold church services and then share some goodies and snacks—kind of like a Christmas party. They would also arrange for some of us to pick out toys and gifts that they would deliver to our families. It bordered on a feeling of normality, to know your kids would get a gift from Dad on Christmas. I will never forget the sound of my kids on the phone saying, “Thank you, Daddy!” on Christmas morning.

Ingredients

1 tablespoon butter, plus more butter or vegetable oil for the pan

1 cup salted peanuts

1 cup sugar

½ cup corn syrup

½ teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon baking soda

1. Butter or oil an 8-by-8-inch square metal baking pan. Set aside.

2. Mix the peanuts, sugar, corn syrup, and salt in a large microwavable bowl.

3. Microwave for 7 to 8 minutes, stirring once or twice. It will bubble and get very hot.

4. Add the butter and microwave for 2 to 3 minutes more, until the mixture turns a caramel color.

5. Working quickly to avoid letting the brittle set, carefully remove the bowl from the microwave. Add the baking soda and stir until mixed well. It will bubble up even more and be very, very hot.

6. Carefully pour the mixture into the buttered pan. Jiggle the pan so the mixture spreads out evenly.

7. If you have the option, refrigerate the brittle so it cools faster. Otherwise, just let it sit for about 30 minutes until cool.

8. Break into pieces and serve.

M
aking prison hooch is a team effort. It takes seven long days to ferment the mix of smuggled ingredients. In a dorm facility, the only hiding place is a stall in the restroom. The last time I made it, my homies and I used my cell. As it brewed, I left the cell as little as possible.

On the sixth day, the smell was pretty strong and reaching beyond my cell walls. When the CO walked by, delivering mail, I thought my brewing days were over, but he kept on walking. Then he stopped, turned around, and waved the mail from side to side in front of his face. “It better be gone before my shift is over.” Right away, I began to strain the pruno and pour it into all the empty tumblers I had. It was a day too early, but it would have to do.

Once the yard was open, I motioned to my other two homies that we had to start the party early! We wrapped bandanas around our tumblers and found an empty area around the baseball bleachers. Other homies started to show up; one brought a radio playing some old-school jams and another brought some smokes. Man, for a little while I didn’t see the concrete wall that surrounded us or the gun tower just above us. Just hanging out with the homies, enjoying laughs and pouring out a bit of pruno to the ones we’d lost.

That night in my cell, I stunk like duck butter and pickle juice! Feeding the sharks and puking at the same time, it’s hard to say it was worth it. Jailhouse hooch makes for a wicked hangover.