Growing up in small-town Oregon, my family lived along the poverty line. We clung to lower-middle class status by accruing credit card debt, writing postdated checks and leaning on our extended family.

My father managed a meat shop. When he started in the 1990s, he earned $4.75 per hour, the minimum wage. But because he was a butcher, we still ate above our income. Some of my favorite home-cooked meals were flank steaks, rib eyes and hamburgers. But regardless of what tasty dish was for dinner, our mailbox was still littered with past-due notices and our answering machine was full of voicemails from collection agencies.

At 18, I went from eating steak to slurping ramen noodles. I was a college student living off two part-time jobs and student loans. Back then, I often told my father I would buy him wagyu steak — made from Kobe beef, the highest quality in the world — once I graduated. I wanted to thank him for the sacrifices he made so I could attend college.

In the end, I landed in prison, and never did buy that wagyu steak for my dad. But, at 38 years old, I was lucky enough to eat one myself, right here in prison.

Paid for with pennies

In April, my correctional facility in eastern Oregon started a culinary program. While cooking classes in prison are fairly common, this program teaches incarcerated people to prep, cook and serve high-cuisine, five-course meals.There are only a handful of programs like it in the U.S.

In August, I was among 18 incarcerated people to attend a dinner the program produced — an incentive for people with leadership roles in various prison programs. We each paid for our meal, scraping together pennies from our prison wages to meet the $31.30 price tag, which is about half a month’s salary.

“I’ve never had the money to do this before,” said Brett Riddle, one of the men who attended the dinner. “It was expensive, but I wanted to support the program.”

The waiters were people I had seen around the prison. Instead of our state-issued uniforms, they wore black slacks, button-up shirts and blue bow ties.

Prison administrators, including Superintendent Dave Pedro and Institution Administrator Jamie Miller, joined us. 

“I believe breaking bread with people provides for an opportunity to demonstrate we care,” Miller told me in an interview. 

Out of the wasp’s nest 

I first noticed the heavy weight of the drinking glass. It had been 10 years since I drank from a glass. Here, we usually drink from plastic cups.

I used a fork, knife and spoon for the meal. Normal prison meals are served on plastic trays, with a plastic spork. Regular forks are a security risk. Not on this night. 

My place setting had its own menu, printed on cardstock with metallic, cursive lettering. All other days, our menu is scribbled on a whiteboard in the cafeteria. 

Taking a cue from others, I placed a white cloth napkin on my lap.

At this dinner, conversations rang out like a fork on porcelain china. It wasn’t like chow hall, where chatter has a nervous and agitated edge, like a wasp’s nest. 

At the start of each course, a culinary student explained the upcoming dish and its preparation process. 

Superintendent Pedro said the purpose of the program was to help people develop job skills.

“I believe it’s our responsibility to present opportunities for growth and improvement,” he said.

Student Nickolas Vega explained how potato pavé was a time-intensive dish that required russet potatoes to be peeled, thinly sliced and soaked in cream and layered. The potato layers were then compressed, cut and fried.

“Before I started the program, I didn’t even know how to peel potatoes,” Vega said, adding that it took three days to prepare the dish.

Vega said he wanted to use cooking to reconnect with his family when he’s released in December 2027. His mother is a cook, and he hopes to make food with her at home.

The taste of wagyu

The main course was wagyu steak with wild-caught Maine sea scallops and tempura-battered haricots vert — a thin, tender green bean — with a demi-glace sauce. Or, as my dad would have called it, surf and turf with fried green beans and gravy.

I ate slowly. The wagyu steak was soft, but not chewy. You could cut it with a spoon. It was salty in an earthy way, not like processed food. While I chewed, I thought about how long it took the food to reach my plate. The chefs started prepping the steak three days prior — to say nothing of the care and attention paid to the Japanese cattle prior to slaughter. Typically, the food I make in prison is dehydrated or freeze-dried and can be microwaved in less than 60 seconds.

The meal concluded with a chocolate truffle for dessert and a cup of coffee. Afterward, I went back to my unit and called my father.

He asked me what it was like to eat wagyu.

I felt a pang of regret, wishing I could have eaten that steak with my father, as a way to repay him.

For a second I got lost in thought. When my father was a teen, he lived on the streets of California. He slept on park benches but still managed to go to high school. At 17, he moved in with my mom’s family. My parents were married three years later.

Four years after I was born, my dad moved to Oregon, months before my mom and I would join him. He lived in a tent while he searched for work and, so the story goes, eventually became a butcher. My great-grandfather followed a similar path when he immigrated to the U.S. from Mexico, in 1915, leaving his home country with only the possessions he could carry.

When I bit into the wagyu steak, it reminded me of the prison sentence I’m serving. It reminded me of dropping out of college. It reminded me of my selfishness. It reminded me that back when it mattered most, I didn’t take advantage of my privileged position. Eating wagyu steak made me feel regret.

Instead of answering his question, I asked if he was disappointed in me.

He paused. “Maybe at first,” he said. “But you picked yourself up. You dusted yourself off. Now you are doing what you need to do.”

I told him the wagyu was fine, but it couldn’t beat a home-cooked meal.