In the apocalypse, all bets are off. It’s about survival. It’s also going to be blatantly apparent that each day could be your last. With that in mind, these are the items that I’d likely want to eat on each of the potentially last days of my life. If I survived, I’d be fat and happy. If not, I’d be be dead, but still fat and happy—only pale, because: bunkers.
My bunker would house shelves of fine preserved foods; the walls would be laced with whole legs of cured meats on the bone. The legs could double as weapons for clocking intruders over the head. While you’re swinging, you could say things like, “Oh, yeah, bitch? How about some parma ham to the dome?” Boom. Done.
Among the necessities would be wine, and plenty of it. I’d want wheels of aged cheese, cured olives, nuts, dried fruits, cartons of American Spirits (because, hey, you’re probably dead anyway), boquerones, kale chips would be a nice dried-salad kind of accompaniment to the boquerones, and—because, as our fine editor pointed out, we’d have to do something to keep the scurvy away—preserved lemons and candied citrus peel.
As we all know, kid’s shows contain loads of wisdom; to prove my point, there’s this: “What do you do with a scurvy pirate? Load the cannon up and fire it. What do you do with a scurvy pirate? Make him walk the plank.” –The Backyardigans
You could sing that song to everyone you’ve got to take out back and shoot due to scurvy. It would certainly remind the children to eat their lemon peel.
Also: dark chocolate. Most chocolate has about a two-year shelf life. Once the chocolate is gone there’s no point in living anyway, so if you can’t leave your bunker after a couple years, just call it quits. Take yourself out back and sing the scurvy pirate song.
Because vegetables are important, I’d want my grandmother’s dilly green beans by the shit-ton. You could make a Thanksgiving meal out of cured meats, a couple jars of dilly green beans, dried fruit, cured olives, and nuts. You would, therefore, also preserve the intrinsically celebratory nature of humanity by holding to rituals. Because you won’t know what day it is anyway, you could have Christmas every fricking day if you wanted to. And you should. Because it might be your last.
Kombu: dried kelp used for making Dashi (the base stock for dishes like miso soup). I’d also keep bonito flakes on hand (dried fish) for stock making, and of course, dried mushrooms and miso. Who needs chicken soup when Kombu Dashi is an option?
I’d also keep rice, rice flour, and dried polenta. Yes, I’d have a gluten-free bunker. I’d like to think I’d end up with a bunch of snobby foodies who’d want to come eat at Jen’s Fancy-Ass Bunker like one of those unmarked hole-in-the wall places you find in cool cities.
And with that, I’ve decided my fate. I’ll never get out of the food industry. It’s kind of in my bones. Even in the apocalypse, I picture myself feeding people. Although instead of making money, I’d probably be trading food for practical things like toilet paper or the world’s only remaining tampons heisted from Walmart before things got too ugly, by some girl who was smarter than me.