When I went to jail, it separated me from friends and family. Instead of spending time with them in person, the jail restricted me to 20-minute phone calls and 20-minute Sunday visits through shatterproof glass. 

The jail housed me in a barracks-style unit with about 50 other men who existed in their own worlds of anxiety and fear, which kept us from making genuine connections with each other.

Despite the odds, a few good people befriended me.

In late June 2021, one of these buddies, Kevin, came to my bunk while I was reading to share an idea. Kevin was an ex-Marine, so he was more accustomed to a barracks lifestyle. Most people on the unit liked him. He was always down to play a game of cards or share one of his myriad stories about hunting or his time in the service.

Kevin had cooked up a scheme by which we could make a meal for everyone in our unit to celebrate the Fourth of July. He wanted to know if I’d be interested in helping out. 

I felt skeptical. How would we be able to feed all 50 people with the measly rations available to us? We only had three bathroom sinks and a microwave that looked like it could break down at any moment. Regardless, I told him that if he could find enough people to pitch in, I would help him cook.

I watched over my book as he made his way about the unit asking people. By the end of it, he came back to me with a smile. He had found enough people to help.

We decided to make roll-ups. They were a favorite on the unit, but infrequently made because they took time and effort. One serving of roll-ups could require 30 to 45 minutes of cooking. But the payoff felt worth it. 

To make a roll-up, we opened a package of ramen and poured boiling hot water into it. We let the ramen soften to the point where we could open up the two layers of noodles and make a firm-walled pocket. Then we stuffed the ramen using ingredients on hand, usually a mixture of state food that we saved from a meal. Then we rolled it up tight in a towel so the noodles settled and stuck together. 

Finally, we pulled the roll-ups out of their bags and covered them with toppings like ramen seasoning packets, crushed chips and sauces made out of chili pouches.

On Independence Day, we got lucky. The jail served a creamy potato salad with our lunch in celebration of the holiday. We often received special food items on important days, though they rarely tasted better than regular jail food. 

While most people would look at that potato salad with resignation, we looked at it with excitement. It would make a perfect filling for our roll-ups. We gathered as much as we could in bowls and set it aside for later.

After lunch, Kevin hollered for people to bring out their donations. The table next to us filled up with jail food staples. Thirty or so people brought ramens, meat sticks, sauce packets and chip bags. I gave extra food so a friend with no money could join us. 

One guy even donated a rare pouch of pre-cooked, buttery mashed potatoes so we could try to add flavor into our filling.

We split the guys into three teams: one team to ensure a steady supply of hot water, a second to prepare the filling and toppings, and a third team to work the ramen. It was all orchestrated by Kevin, our head chef.

I ended up on the team working with the ramen. It was our job to pour in the hot water and get the ramen walls into a pocket. Once the head chef filled them, we’d wrap them tight in threadbare jail towels.

I could feel the unit getting excited. People walked around the table we worked at to peek at our progress. Some stood by the guy mixing together all the potatoes, flavoring the bland fare with salt, pepper and other seasoning. He did a good job spreading out the pouch of buttery mashed potatoes so that everyone’s filling tasted somewhat like butter, an uncommon luxury.

Once we finished cooking, I joined the cleanup crew. We washed the mess of plastic dishes in the bathroom sinks, and got them back to their proper owners. 

As I walked around the unit handing people their bowls, cups and utensils, I could sense that something had changed. People around me smiled and joked with friends over their meal. Under normal circumstances, some of these people couldn’t even afford a package of ramen. Now they had a hearty bowl of food.

The meal itself wasn’t anything fancy, but it was better than regular jail food. The average person would probably look at the meal and see slop. But I don’t think the happiness in the jail was about the food. 

This scheme Kevin came up with, one in which we cooked as a group and ate as a group, eased our isolation. Eating a communal meal created a bridge to link our separate worlds of anxiety, if only for a moment.

Once we cleaned up and returned the plastic items, I grabbed my food. A seat opened at a table where I knew a few guys. I sat down and enjoyed a meal with friends.