My last meal would most definitely be shared with my closest friends, who are the family I got to choose, along with my actual family, partner James and my bulldog Boicey. Growing up in South Africa with Italian and Jewish grandparents, food was always at the heart of our home. My late Nonna (grandmother) and my mother remain the best cooks I've ever known.
For our last supper, we would travel to Plettenberg Bay, a beachside town in South Africa, and set up camp on Robberg, a beach where I took my first steps. We'd gather around a long table draped with a crisp white linen tablecloth, lined with candles in brown paper bags and an abundance of white and green flowers.
We'd start with an aperitivo of ice-cold pink Laurent-Perrier. Our antipasto would include caponata, burrata, broad bean dip, grilled vegetables, pizzette, calamari, and baskets of fresh bread. For the main course, we'd have a selection of pastas (as I don't eat meat) including (and in no particular order) my mom's pomodoro, my Nonna's carciofi gnocchi, pasta alla Norma, ravioli with sage brown butter sauce, and spaghetti vongole, accompanied by a large green salad with a lemon-y, salty olive oil dressing. I really have run with the 'you never get full' instruction.
Oh, and to finish, of course, it has to be tiramisu. A final 'pick me up', and maybe a few Chiacchiere too.
I couldn't think of a better way to enjoy (and indulge) in my last meal on earth with my favourite people and favourite food.
