SPREADS 101:

Prison food culture and recipes

By Andrew Scot Bolsinger

The importance of food, even in prison, should not be underestimated. Just as in homes, restaurants and backyard barbecues across the country, where food serves as the hub of social interaction and gathering, social life in prison also revolves around the food culture.

Spreads

To Lori, who stayed

Andrew Scot Bolsinger AUTHORS NOTE

F
criminality.

or far too long I was part of the problem. This book and the related website www.criminalU.com are my initial attempts to be part of the solution.

Im sure there are far more capable people on both sides of the barbed wire who have better solutions to societal problems than I could ever expect to offer. I only add my stories in the humble hope of shining the light a little brighter on an epidemic of incarceration in America that has proven to be ineffective in treating the social ills of addiction and

I welcome all responses and opportunities for future engagements. Please contact me at Andrew.bolsinger@gmail.com, or check out my website at www.criminalU.com. Look for the publication of my prison-based memoir, Criminal U: Behind the barbed wire of Americas prisons, soon to be released.

Spreads

y mixing bowl was most often a garbage bag. Though they were stored like everything -- and everyone -- else behind lock and key including the garbage bags, contraband clean

garbage bags could be found in the cans under the dirty ones. I'd grab a bag, and its rustle heard through the cellblock imitated a dinner bell. In prison, the most important -- and coveted -- food does not come out of the cafeteria, other than key ingredients that are stolen from it. The most sought-out food, made every day in many different ways, is called "Spreads."

Using only these ingredients (pictured above), and with nothing more than these tools (pictured below: Tupperware bowl, cleanser top for grating, short ruler for cutting) along with hot water, I can make a threecourse spread of tuna ramen noodle mini- sandwiches, macho burrito bowls and peanut butter cheese cake.

Andrew Scot Bolsinger Guys vied to "get in" on such spreads. Similar products and methods created Peanut Sauce Chicken Chinese, 7-layer Nachos, Chocolate NoBake Cookies, Snickers Pie and more. Friendships were made, standing within the culture enhanced, profitable enterprises created and other rituals established -- all centered around the culture of "Spreads." Even within the subculture of a low-caste society behind the barbed wire and bars of America's human recycling centers, food transcends. Through this little book I have noted some of my favorite recipes these include: Macho Burrito Bowls, page 16 Ramen Tuna Sandwiches, page 20 Prison Power Bars, page 26 Inside Peanut Butter Chocolate Cheesecake, page 28 Chinese Chicken Noodles, page 35 Cellblock Oatmeal, page 45

*****

n the Thursday before the most important Monday of my life, I sat with a friend in my bunk area. He sat on my bunkies footlocker. I sat on my bunk with my small TV playing in the

background, where we had strung it up on a conduit with a shoelace. The entire area had become sort of a man-cave, the premiere bunk in the 1106

Spreads man dorm because it was virtually the only one without neighbors other than my bunkie, Bob, who lived above me. We counted my space by the floor tiles. I had lucked into four-and-half tiles of width (most had three to three-and-a-half), which constituted enough space to pull the footlocker out from under the bunk and use it as a couch. My friend Tony used the couch so often others joked that he was our third bunkie. Tony, as he did every afternoon, busied himself with cooking that nights spread. Tony and I had formed an unlikely friendship. He grew up the children of gang members from a notorious Hispanic gang. His destiny, if he had one by birth, was this: sitting in prison, inked from head to fingernails with the tell-tale markings of his allegiances, beliefs and rank, and making food from the stuff from the prison commissary list. If I had a birthright, I had gone hopelessly off track. Whereas Tony looked forward to being the first from his family to become a successful (legitimate) businessman, I was the first from a longfamily tree of successful college graduates to land his dumb ass in prison. Tony was a shock collar, which in prison-speak means he ran this particular franchise of his gang. Everything inside our prison that was done by those in the same car as Tony had to be approved by Tony. Me, I ran nothing. My car was a Schwinn. I had done my time solo, making my way through the Byzantine system of the department of corrections on my own. But as this Thursday came around, Tony and I shared three things in common that formed the basis for our friendship:

Andrew Scot Bolsinger We had been down long enough to be considered veterans, especially at this minimum-security prison where our earlier stay at the state pen had earned us plenty of standing among other inmates. We were both getting close enough to our release dates to be considered short, though he was a lot shorter than I was, unless the most important Monday of my life worked out how my attorney hoped. All of which brought us to our third shared commonality. We both loved food. For the past several months we had pooled our resources to spread together virtually every night. We made an array of dishes, experimenting with different combinations and changes from a very limited pool of ingredients. During the summer we bolstered our meals with contraband from the garden. During the fall we worked deals for critical ingredients out of the kitchen. We both worked out hard by day to be able to eat well by night. We hunkered in the man cave and chopped and diced and tossed together our creations, mostly outside of the watchful eye of the prison guards. One time, the smell of fresh chopped garlic and cilantro ratted us out, but thankfully the guard looked the other way, admitting it smelled so good curiosity brought him sneaking up on us more than the desire to discipline. The more we cooked, the more we schemed, the more we created, the better we got to know each other and the deeper our bonds grew. Over time we became known around the prison yard. Tony called me Madoff because of my financial crimes. Soon, others called me that as well. He was known by his prison handle. We never used our first names 8

Spreads with each other. At times I doubted we remembered them. Names were not necessary inside. I told Tony about the surprising call from my attorney. In the more than three years that Id been down, I rarely shared my life with others, especially things like this, which constituted big news. So, after all these months of silence, the judge has agreed to hear my post-conviction relief, I said, as I stepped over Tonys cooking counter/couch/footlocker to slide onto my bunk. Thats good news, right? he asked without looking up. Could be. Heres the crazy part: The judge set the hearing for Monday. Just like that and its three days away. Now Tony looked up. Holy shit, he said. I know. He shook his head. I dont know how you keep putting up with this shit. Im going nuts just thinking about it and its not even me, he said. Well, Im 0-4 so far. Whats one more? Maybe this is the one Ill finally win, I said. I had been in courtrooms four times during this exodus through the prison system. Id lost every time. The more confidant my attorneys were going in, the worse the defeat.

Andrew Scot Bolsinger Tony and I had talked a lot about the strange set of legal twists and turns that had taken my sentencing and double-downed on it. A year earlier, after serving my sentence and earning early release, I had been sent back to serve the entire sentence all over again. I had been waiting months for the post-conviction relief motion I had filed. In most cases, my attorney told me, the judge would dismiss without a hearing. The fact he had agreed to hear it, and that it was scheduled so abruptly suggested the possibility of a reversal. The scent of immediate freedom hung in the air. Tony took all this information in. Fuck man, he said. Ive been down six years. From day one I knew the day Id be released. No good time, no hope for a change. Until now I never knew how easy that has made my time. I couldnt do it man, not like you have. I couldnt keep getting my hopes up. I shrugged. Not much I can do to change it, I said. So what are you going to do all weekend? He asked. Id need a lot of Thorazine. Ive been thinking about that, I said. Fuck it. Might as well embrace it. Live it up, you know? Youre crazy. Probably. But how many last weekends in prison does a guy get? You? Plenty Jesus Christ.

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Spreads Tony stood and stretched, looking out the window. As he shook his head, the tattooed demon on the back of his skull stared back at me with a sinister smile. I got about $50 worth of food in my box, I said. We are gonna eat well this weekend, my friend. Tony turned back around. His eyebrows arched. You are crazy, he said. Think about it. Come Tuesday, if Im still here nothing is going to change the situation. It cant get any more screwed up. It can always get worse, Tony reminded me. This was a mantra we said to each other often simply to maintain a sense of equilibrium necessary for day-to-day survival. Well true, but it will be tough to top that, I said. True. So either I sit around here wound so tight I end up flashing on someone and getting shot to the hole, or I loosen up and live in the moment. Have fun. Treat it like Im leaving because I might be. You sure? Hell yes. Lets eat like kings, I said. And we did. We made burritos and Chinese food and desserts and nachos and stuffed ourselves silly. I called every family member I knew just to chat and laugh and dream about the hope that, come Tuesday, Id

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Andrew Scot Bolsinger be free. I spent at least another $50 on phone calls on top of the money on food we devoured. Instead of dragging, the weekend flew by. It remains one of the better weekends I spent in more than four years inside. By Monday, the tension of the moment began to rise above the denial of food and frivolity. My hearing was set for 3:30 p.m. My son was in town, having flown up from San Francisco. My dad, who lived nearby, would join him at the hearing. I had heard stories of people winning such things. I had dreamed of the guards knock on my bunk, ordering me to pack up, and being told you gotta get the hell out the prison within an hour because of liabilities, skipping all the months of obligatory classes and red tape and suddenly shipped to the head of the class. This could be my story. I thought about it all day. Word had gotten around to just a few inmates of my situation. Besides Tony, a former Aryan gang member named William had dropped by periodically just to check in on me, something he had never done before. Though only thirty-something, William had been down eight or nine times already. He had confided in me during one of our few genuine conversations that from the age of nine he set his mind on being a career criminal, which meant he had prepared for prison life his whole life. As a result, the vast majority of it had been spent in places like this. William knew better than most what I was feeling. Despite all our differences of thought, belief, religion, family and status, his empathy felt as real as a down comforter all weekend. Both William and Tony had gravitated toward me in quiet support. Both knew the gravity of the 12

Spreads situation. Both knew all they could do is be there, to go through it with me as best they could, as if I was one of their adopted homies, even though I decidedly was not. William was also headed home in just over a week. He had no reason to extend himself to me. He had no reason to care. Still, he did. Theres a way to do things right in prison. This was one of them. As the loudspeakers announced the four oclock sit-up count, we each returned to our bunks. Tony and William gave me a final fist bump. I spent the count starting at a white wall. As soon as the count cleared, I dashed to the phones directly across from Williams bunk to call and see what had happened in the courtroom. As I dialed my way through the phone prompts necessary for an outside call, my chest tightened. The phone receiver in my hand trembled. I looked up once to see Tony and William, nervously pacing near Williams bunk. The computerized voice in my ear instructed me that I had a message. I pressed the appropriate prompts. I listened. My face stiffened. I looked up to lock eyes with my buddies. I signaled a single thumb down. Staring at the floor, I called my family with the news. Ten minutes later I walked the slow prison shuffle of the walking dead back to my bunk. William and Tony were perched on my locker. I quickly smelled the scent of Williams signature Peanut Sauce Chinese Food. We didnt talk much. We ate.

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Andrew Scot Bolsinger Without a word, those two hardened men knew what I needed most. By spreading, I could avoid the insanity of the chow hall. I could hide out in my man cave and allow the disappointment to dissipate. Well, shit. Wrong again. Im now O 5, I said as I slid into my bunk. At least I gave it a shot. Fuck them, William said. I shrugged. I put myself here. Still fuck them. It can always get worse, Tony reminded me. I nodded. And that was it. We ate.

*****

prison, namely money. The food is dirt-cheap, doesnt spoil and makes the DOC and its vendors a pretty penny in profit margins. The practical result is the easiest spreads to make are either burritos or nachos. Every inmate that does any serious cooking has his or her favorite version. Mine evolved into a cross between both, something I called the Macho Burrito Bowl.

he vast majority of items on prison commissary lists revolve around Mexican food. I never fully understood why, but I suspect it has to do with whats true of most things in

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Spreads One essential component of all spreads -- with the rare exception of fresh produce is that all the ingredients are virtually immune to spoilage. I still cant get my head around things like cheese, mayonnaise, chili garlic sauce, soy sauce and even protein being packaged in such a way that they simply never spoil. But for inmates who can only store food in a footlocker, this is critically important. For everyone on the other side of the barbed wire, it should raise an eyebrow or two about whats being done to food to give it permanent shelf life. For four years I tried not to think about it, because frankly it tasted so good. All of the ingredients listed here are found in bags, not cans. They do not need refrigeration. Be forewarned, most are spicy. Heat is a basic requirement of prison spreads that likely has to do with such braying posturing, like lifting weights that are too heavy, talking too loudly, boasting insufferably, and shower-gazing for the largest well, you know. Everything in prison seems to fall under the idea of bigger is better. The speech patterns exemplify these trends. Consider: You dont beat someone up in prison; you smash them out. Like wise when you eat something, you dont eat, you smash it out. The overlap remains a mystery to me. You dont just like something, its the bomb. You dont use toss individual cuss words at someone; you string them together like, motherfuckingbullshitpieceofshit. You dont do time; you do a grip.

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Andrew Scot Bolsinger And so on. Nuance is a concept lost on 99 percent of inmates. Its just the way it is, hence the name macho on this recipe. Heres how to make it:

MACHO BURRITO BOWL Ingredients: One bag of Cactus Annie flour tortillas One bag of refried beans One bag of pre-cooked brown rice One bag of chicken meat One package of chorizo One tub of Crazy Cow cheese One bar of cheddar cheese One bag of Cactus Annie tortilla chips One garlic pickle Chili garlic sauce Cinnamon Garlic (powdered is ok, but fresh is better) Jalapeo peppers Tapatio hot sauce Green salsa picante sauce One small bag of fire-hot Cheetos

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Spreads Instructions: 1) Open both bags of rice and beans. Fill with hot water and re-seal the zipper top. Set aside on a level surface to steam. 2) Use a plastic ruler to dice the chorizo, pickle and jalapeos. 3) Crush the chips slightly in the bag. 4) Open your stolen garbage bag and pour in the rice, beans, half the broken chips and the crazy cow cheese. Dump in about two spoonfuls of chili garlic sauce and a healthy few dashes of cinnamon. Add garlic. Tie off the bag and smash it around inside. 5) Line the bottom of each bowl with one tortilla. The best bowl size is one that allows the tortilla to cover the sides as well. Spread some of the remaining broken chips on top of the tortillas. Splash some green sauce over the chips. 6) Take the beans and rice mix from the garbage bag and fill the bowl over the chips. It should be thick, but still very slightly runny to fill in the cracks of the chips. 7) Open the chicken package and shred with fingers. Sprinkle over the beans and rice. Then sprinkle the chopped-up chorizo, pickle and jalapeos. 8) Take the top of an Ajax lid (it should be pre-cleaned very well so you dont poison yourself. Then use a pencil to push out the edges of the circles to fashion a cheese grater) and grate the cheese bar over the bowls.

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Andrew Scot Bolsinger 9) Crush a small bag of Cheetos into very small pieces and sprinkle over the top of the bowls. 10) Top with Tapatio sauce and serve. Should make at least six bowls, which in prison means four, max. See above about bigger is better.

*****

of social interaction and gathering, social life in prison also revolves around the food culture. Prison food best emulates how far afield American food culture has gone. It is cheap, industrialized, and loaded with carbs, fat, sugar and salt. It is processed beyond recognition of normal food and fairly addictive because of all of the aforementioned. Virtually every meal served in the chow hall at many prisons seems like time travel back to the 1970s of my youth. Cheap. Frozen. Processed. Things like Tater Tots, Chicken Nuggets, Sloppy Joes and Hot Dogs dominate the menu. Eating right (see healthy) is, well, impossible. You do the best you can.

he importance of food, even in prison, should not be underestimated. Just as in homes, restaurants and backyard barbecues across the country, where food serves as the hub

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Spreads But thanks to prison spreads, you can at least eat something you like, which almost never happens in the chow hall. You can also eat in relative peace and quiet, which never I mean never happens in the chow hall. Instead of eating with one foot braced underneath you for quick reaction and eyes pivoting as if on a swivel, spreads allow you to kick back on your bunk, watch on TV and enjoy (relatively speaking) your meal. Speaking of enjoyment, no recipe we came up with in prison topped Ramen Tuna Sandwiches. I simply loved these. Fish of any kind is a rarity and a delicacy. In the chow hall wed have a white fish about once a month. Several inmates saw the boxes it came in labeled, Not for human consumption. Everyone knew the fish was barely fish, but we ate it anyway. Tuna was therefore the equivalent of lobster. It was real food, not screwed up or scraped off the bottom of the barrel. Thats what made these sandwiches so good despite all the stuff added to the tuna. Dont knock it until you try it. Speaking of trying it, heres the recipe:

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Andrew Scot Bolsinger

RAMEN TUNA SANDWICHES Ingredients: Two ramen packets One pepperoni stick One bag of tuna City Cow cheese Flaming Hot Cheetos Mayo and mustard packets Chili garlic sauce 1/2 a garlic pickle

Instructions: 1) Use a plastic ruler to dice the pickle and the pepperoni stick. Put into bowl. Drain the tuna bag and add to the bowl. 20

Spreads 2) Put two to four mayo packets (not TOO Much... rookies die on this hill. Most moms use WAY too much mayo on tuna.... trust me) and equal to slightly more mustard in the bowl. Put a dollop of chili garlic sauce in next. 3) If you have contraband salt and pepper add now. If not, use about half of the ramen season packet, which is glorified salt and who knows, probably MSG and a bunch of stuff you don't need, so try to avoid. 4) Mix the bowl ingredients thoroughly. 5) Fill half of a water pitcher with hot water. Go get someone who is afraid of you or owes you and make him dunk the ramen noodle into hot water with his fingers for no more than 10 seconds. As soon as they take it out, gently open the noodles like a sandwich. Repeat. Tell the noodle guy to go ice his fingers. 6) Spread City Cow cheese on the noodles. 7) Smash all the tuna/meat mixture on the cheese. Pile it high. 8) Smash the Cheetos into dust and sprinkle it over the tuna. Fold the sandwich together.

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Andrew Scot Bolsinger 9) Put it back into the wrapper to hold it all together as you eat. Let it rest for a couple of minutes to merge together and level out between cold and warm items.

*****

lost 100 pounds in prison. Let that soak in. With all the crappy food and the best

tasting stuff like I describe here being literally some of the fattiest food Ive ever eaten, I was still able to lose the weight.

The problem though is the odds were against me from the start, just as they are against every low-income level family trying to put meals on the table each and every day. Cheap food will make you fat. Believe that. Cheap food will kill you, thats for sure. Processed, industrialized food is addictive. Its all super-sized. Its designed scientifically designed by experts in their craft to swell your appetite and make you want to eat more. For decades, industrialized food has effectively ramped up their 22

Spreads market share by ramping up the number of calories Americans eat, and the number of calories they eat before they feel full. The strategies really arent too different from those used by the tobacco companies for years. Salt and sugar are addictive. They build immunities requiring more and more to get the same flavor and same emotional reaction to the food that the first bite creates. The point is that virtually anyone reliant on the government for their food from inmates, to single-family parents, to low-income families, to college students, to the elderly in retirement homes is up against massive odds if they dont want to get fat, get sick and get addicted to sugar and salt. But it is not impossible. Im proof. As I said, I lost 100 pounds. Ive kept it off for nearly three years. It can be done. More importantly, it can be done eating inexpensive food and occasionally enjoying the calorie bombs like many of the recipes in this book. How to do it is a topic for another day. But true change starts with simple empathy. For four years the local food movement that swept up the country was completely inaccessible to me and to the nearly two million others behind barbed wire and bars. But many, many millions more, because of income and location and opportunity are just as distant from the healthier opportunities to eat better and live better. Despite all the cooking shows and restaurants and farmers markets that may seem as ubiquitous as Starbucks, we cant forget that good, simple healthy food is as beyond their grasp as it was beyond mine.

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Andrew Scot Bolsinger That said, dont be afraid to enjoy a spread now and again. Just dont enjoy it too often. We had plenty of those guys in the cellblock. They came into prison in reasonable shape. They were depressed. They sat around. They ate everything on the commissary list and everything in the chow hall and their bellies grew. Nine months later, youd see them in profile and theyd look ready to give birth. Many of these guys gained more than I lost. Im not even kidding, it was like watching a pregnant woman grow. Their bellies just swelled with fat and the threat of radical health problems as a result. This food can do that to you, sad to say. But it still tastes pretty damn good.

*****

fight with alcohol. I didnt enjoy sweets then. I just drank. Twenty years of drinking were like falling through a funnel. Life narrowed. Interests narrowed. Creativity narrowed. Health narrowed. Everything so backed up that I could barely manage. My wife, Lori, and I did nothing but work, stress-out, come home and drink. The only social engagements we agreed to were alcohol related. This kept up until finally my life poured out the small end of a bottle, completely broken and minimalized. Through rehab I actually had to start 24

F all the things I cooked inside, I was best known for my desserts. I love a little bit of sweetness in my life. The only time I didnt was when I was at the very bottom of my

Spreads to rethink life so completely that I started from scratch. I started a list of things to do without drinking. I came up with just three the first day. After a couple of weeks I had maybe thirty things listed. Then slowly the thing grew to 150 ideas of what I could do without drinking. I could visualize life expanding again, and much of it had to do with my long-buried creative, artistic mind that really brings me joy. Sobriety came to represent expansive life, not narrowed life. Sober life, not addiction. Creation over destruction. Beauty over consumption. The bottle gave way to the canvas or some such thing, if that makes any sense. The return of dessert to my life came after I completed rehab and began to allow good things in moderationback into my life. I ordered some chocolate books. I sat and read them and stared at the photos and thought of the day when I could try to make these artistic delights for myself. I called it food porn, and it was far better than the other kind. I also started making some desserts of my own with items off the commissary list. No-bake cookies were easy, yet tasty. But because I had largely lost my taste for excessive sugar, I preferred something with a bit more boost. I created my Prison Power Bar. They are wickedly simple and pretty damn good for you. Try it.

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Andrew Scot Bolsinger

PRISON POWER BARS Ingredients: 1 small jar of peanut butter 1 lb of oatmeal, plain 1 lb of vanilla whey protein 1/3 of a honey bear of honey a good shake of cinnamon, salt

Instructions: 1) Mix all the ingredients together in trash bag. Add very small amounts of hot water, just enough to bring the mixture together with the texture of Play-doh. Do not let get runny. 2) Smoosh until combined. 3) Tie off garbage bag after forcing out the air. Then flatten with a heavy book, pushing the edges of the bag into a square. 26

Spreads 4) Let stand for an hour. 5) Break off pieces as needed. Variation- Add in a bag of chocolate whipper mix to make the flavor like a Reeses cup. Cut back the honey by half as the whipper has plenty of sugar. But youll need a bit more water to congeal properly, or use a small ball of swiped butter.

*****

my commissary for free. They were that popular on the prison yard. Then I made one after I got out. It wasnt bad. Compared to the richness of real food and real dessert, it pales a bit. But inside, well, nothing beat it.

ow these arent exactly dessert, so Id be remiss if I didnt include my recipe for Prison Cheesecake. Had I wanted to sell cheesecake on the black market, I could have gotten

INSIDE PEANUT BUTTER CHOCOLATE CHEESECAKE Ingredients: A bag of powdered milk A cup of vanilla whey protein powder 12 sugar cubes dissolved in about a cup of hot water Half a jar of peanut butter Half a bag of chocolate whipper mix

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Andrew Scot Bolsinger A bag of chocolate chip cookies (the really stale, dry kind ) One Reeses candy bar Splash of cinnamon

Instructions: 1) Make your crust first. Start by crushing the cookies in a garbage bag into a crumbly powder. Use a boot. 2) Pour the cookies into the bowl with half the peanut butter and half the chocolate. Smoosh around into a ball. 3) Press the ball into the base of a plastic bowl until its all evenly covered with crust. Set aside. 4) Now make your filling. In the cup of sugar water slowly mix in about 1/3 of the powdered milk, beating rapidly with a spoon. Add in the whey protein. Keep beating like your arm is going to fall off. Add in the rest of the milk, 1/3 at a time. It will turn thick and glue-like, as if it will stick to the cup forever, which youll find out when you clean up is exactly what it will do. Try not to imagine what its doing to your stomach wall. 5) Add in the cinnamon and chocolate and stir. Fold in the remaining peanut butter so its swirled, not mixed. Pour it into the crust. 6) Break up the Reeses and sprinkle the crumbly mess out of the wrapper onto to the top of the cheesecake until lightly covering the whole thing. Put the plastic top on securely. Grab a swiped trash bag and fill with ice (if available. Ice was only allowed on the 28

Spreads honor dorm or the kitchen, so this takes a little preplanning or a fake injury to make happen). Put the bowl into the ice, tie it up and hide it in a towel under your bunk for three hours. 7) Cut with a ruler and enjoy. Variations: Too numerous to mention here, but you can swap in an oatmeal no-bake crust or even an Oreo crust. Use raspberry flavored Crystal Light packets in the water to replace the peanut butter and you have Chocolate Raspberry Cheesecake. The original cheesecake recipe swaps butter for peanut butter in the crust and only lemon Crystal Light in the milk. Top that with strawberry jam. A Snickers bar makes a great topping. Starlight Mints in the batter with Hersheys chocolate on top makes a great treat. And so it goes with cheesecake.

*****

my years in prison, the Mennonites had arranged to host an all-day picnic of sorts, including barbecuing burgers and dogs for every inmate. It seemed impossible for any group, much less a religious group to have such prison access.

n a beautiful late summer day the prison became surprisingly stirred up like a childs snow globe by, of all people, a group of local Mennonites. Unprecedented in

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Andrew Scot Bolsinger They came to visit on a Saturday. I woke up that morning and went into a small closet of a workout room most of the 110 men in the dorm slept. Eventually, I finished my yoga. Sweaty and spent I padded back to my bunk through the now bustling and noisy dorm. Tony sat on my locker. Where have you been? he asked. Yoga. Oh, he said. That makes sense. I saw your shoes under your bunk so I knew you couldnt have gone far. I even stalked the showers. I laughed. Well, Im here now. Youre going down there to eat right? he asked. Ive been watching them set up. They have so much food down there. Mennonites always do, I said. So were going? Sure, I said. For inmates fed a steady diet of cheap, processed carbs and various combinations of soy/meat cast off products, the food was mouth watering. It was also plentiful. We were actually encouraged to load our plates. Volunteers of all ages fanned out in Marine-like efficiency, serving the entire institution more effectively than our daily routine. Seated on benches and on the grass peacefully throughout the yard, inmates happily ate the food while the musicians played and volunteers came by refilling

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Spreads glasses and offering pleasant conversation. The entire event was patently Mennonite, not Department of Corrections. I ate with my bunkie, Bob, a devout Mormon, and Tony, a thoughtfully curious agnostic. As we ate, I found myself explaining Anabaptist theology. Bob asked, Arent you Catholic? Im a spiritual mutt, I said. So, how do you know all this? Well, I was once a Mennonite preacher, I said. Their slack-jawed expressions said everything. I could see their view of me tilting like an old pinball machine. We finished eating. Soon Tony became engaged in a conversation with a middle-aged man in a flannel shirt who showed no hesitation talking to a heavily tattooed Mexican gang leader. My memories raced back in time to those years when my friend Ramiro and I stood up for immigrant workers while starting the areas first Spanish-speaking Hispanic-led local church. This is what youve been missing in your life, Gods nudge seemed to tell me. As the day wound down, I noticed that the Mennonites were in no hurry to leave. They seemed content to share the pleasant day in our midst. Even the attractive women seemed to take in stride the inevitable

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Andrew Scot Bolsinger fawning attention of boundary-deficient inmates who jockeyed for their attention. Even more surprisingly, everywhere I went I overheard inmate conversations about our guests. Completely unprecedented in my experience, the comments were overwhelmingly positive, exuding rare gratefulness. Inmates can always, I mean always, be counted on to find something to bitch about. Yet the prison seemed flooded with appreciation. As I considered these surprising events, Tony called me over to a table crowed with members of his car. Typically I avoided Tony when he was busy with his gang-related interests. He knew I wasnt trying to take advantage of his status and others knew I remained unattached despite our friendship. Such things politics we called them are unspoken, yet important in prison. So despite our friendship, he surprised me when he called me over. Heres the deal, he said. Those Jehovah Witnesses in our unityou know them? I searched my mind a moment. I finally pictured the group, a bunch of harmless older white guys who avoided prison interactions. They kept mostly to themselves and their bunks. I nodded. Tony continued, Well, theyre grieving this event. They didnt come eat. Theyre up there planning, saying how their religious liberties are being abused.

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Spreads As he spoke I looked around the table. I saw hostility etched on their faces. Who are these mother fuckers! one of them asked. Tony offered descriptions. Soon another guy spoke up. Oh, I know that fat guy. And Ive seen those guys he sits with. Lets handle this. The rest of the table buzzed to life. These people are doing something nice and these fucks are fucking it off for all of us. Those burgers were real beef way. Who the fuck dont like real beef, dumb-ass motherfuckers. Yep, lets handle this Tony had purposefully stirred up this hornets nest. Now he would sit back and watch them sting. This had become personal to him. As the conversation careened between what would be done, the quality of the food, the attractiveness of the ladies and the anger at the Jehovah Witnesses, I considered why I was involved in the conversation. Look, this pisses me off, too. I said. These guys are just poking at D.O.C. And, yes, they are going to screw it up for everyone in the future. But I know Mennonites. If they thought that their being here in any way caused violence theyd be devastated. Their whole deal is peace and loving your enemies. Thats the main reason they do this stuff. So I think I

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Andrew Scot Bolsinger can tell you theyd be grateful that you want to defend them, but they would beg you not to avenge them. I looked around the table somewhat surprised I had their attention. I shrugged, lifted my hands a bit and said simply, Im just saying I clapped hands with a couple of the guys I knew in a sign of respect and then departed. I left them to their business, unsure how it would play out. Tony and I didnt speak about it again. But nobody on our unit could miss the back-pedaling from several of the Jehovah Witnesses. They all ducked deep off the radar, avoided gathering and stuck to their bunks. By nightfall all except one guy said they had nothing to do with the grievance. I never learned for sure if it was actually ever filed. Clearly, messages were delivered, threats made. But no violence broke out. Neither did any fallout of negativity. The event held up as a rare, highly positive, unconventional event. When signs announced the Mennonite Barbecue the next year, the cellblock buzzed with excitement. The food that day proved transformative, if only for a short while. A simple meal, hosted by simple people, who brought their backyard barbecue to more than 400 inmates, become of my lasting memories of prison, nudging out many difficult, traumatic experiences. They cooked, they cleaned, they sat and talked and lingered and shared a pleasant passing afternoon under a summer sun. Ill never forget the power of a good meal and pleasant conversation. I saw it first-hand in the most unlikely place. By the way, meat of just about any kind is a stop-the-presses moment inside. For weeks I sold my steroid-fueled, antibiotic-braised, road-kill 34

Spreads looking chicken dinner for envelopes to write home. There was no shortage of customers. Id often trade for the meatloaf, which to the best of my knowledge contained no meat whatsoever. Im guessing it was a soy-veggie loaf. I never saw an ounce of blood on the meatloaf. It sounds strange, but I didnt eat much of the meat from the chow hall, I did use the pre-packaged, salt bomb products from the commissary in most of my spreads. Dont ask me to explain the difference. Things dont always make sense inside. In the whole cocktail of phobias and fixations I developed while down, this just emerged. I liked my meat at times, but I guess I just wanted to be a little more in charge when it came to cooking it. Heres one of the chicken meals Id make after selling my chow hall chicken. Go figure.

CHINESE CHICKEN NOODLES Ingredients: One package of chicken One package of Thai noodles Chili garlic sauce Soy sauce Broccoli and cauliflower muled back from the chow hall Small bag of peanuts

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Andrew Scot Bolsinger Instructions: 1) Dice up the broccoli, cauliflower and chicken. Put into a plastic tumbler and marinade with chili garlic and soy 2) In a bowl pour hot water over the Thai noodle package (twice the cost of ramen, but comes with two flavor packets and dried vegetables) empty in curry flavor packet and veggie packet. Toss the third packet. It blows. 3) Drain the water after four to five minutes. Dump in the vegetables and chicken. 4) Smash up the peanuts with a boot and top the noodles. Sprinkle with soy (only available to us on the Christmas shopping list, so Id stock up for a whole year). Variation: William had a peanut sauce that basically used peanut butter, chili garlic and a sugar cube. It was pretty damn delightful, but I never made it. Experiment. Thats what we all did.

*****

power. The people dressed in civilian clothes had even more. They held my life in their hands. 36

am biased. For four years I wore blue. I admit that. It changed

my perspective more than anything else I had done in my life previously. During that time the guys and gals in gray had all the

Spreads Unwittingly I had enrolled in Criminal U, a discarded caste that thrived on the worst of societys biases like racism, homophobia, violence, and hopelessness. From my biased viewpoint, Criminal U is a well-oiled machine. Judges, guards, prosecutors, parole officers and counselors cooperate to ensure the continuation of this robust, government-funded economy. They shuffle people like cards at a poker game, tossing months and years like stacks of chips. Salacious headlines, sourcing only police and prosecutors, ensure convictions. Politicians craft mountains of tough on crime legislation to placate voters who march in lockstep to the ballot boxes, ignorant of the true cost both to taxpayers and to society as a whole. Taxpayers have finally begun to realize the true cost of incarceration, which in states like Oregon costs them more to house an inmate than to educate a child. This carefully planned epidemic imprisons more Americans per capita than any other industrialized nation. In recent months, the issue has bubbled to the surface in prominent national magazines, newscasts and websites, such that President Barack Obama and a prominent Republican strategist (who despises President Obama, of course) both touted the need for reform in Time magazine following the 2012 election. In the April 2010 issue of Esquire, Hollywood superstar Brad Pitt listed 15 things of crucial importance to society. The plight of Americas prisons topped the list.

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Andrew Scot Bolsinger We spend $40 billion a year on the drug war and $8 billion incarcerating people, 25 percent of whom are in there for drugs, Pitt stated. Think of all the other things we could do with that money. Since Pitts comments in 2010 and the massive financial crisis of state governments in 2011, the issue of a costly, broken prison system has gained prominence in national media outlets. Consider a swath of news I found over a one-month period in early 2012 from the highly restricted world inside of prison. Feb 21: San Francisco Chronicle columnist Chip Johnson reported the Occupy Movement expanded to include a focus on needed prison reform, touched off by a protest outside of San Quentin. March 6: A front-page photo in the San Francisco Chronicle showed a protestor outside the state capitol holding a sign that reads Colleges not Prisons. March 8: USA Today offered two front-page stories that focused on a push to privatize prisons to save state money. March 11: The Sunday edition of the New York Times offers three stories on prisons. A prominent front-page story quotes Mayor Michael Bloomburg bemoaning looming budget cuts and real choices. March 19: A USA Today investigation found that hundreds of sexual offenders are being held for years without a trial, not for crimes they committed, but for crimes authorities fear they might commit. That same day CNN begins promoting a special news show focused on a man who served 17 years in prison unjustly.

This whole thing is a field of dry brush, just waiting for the right match to ignite it. That match will be stories, the stories that bridge the vast 38

Spreads chasm between those inside and those outside. Im a romantic. I think the more we get disparate people together around a plate of common food, the better our chances are to find common ground. A counselor once told me, folks out there dont care about you, he said. He wasnt being mean or patronizing. Instead he was tiredly just telling what he knew to be true. They want you and everyone like you locked up forever. They just dont care. In broad strokes he was right. But he was also wrong. Too many are disenfranchised. Too many are behind bars. Too many have lost their way and the costs are too high. There is still hope for reform. Thousands of dedicated people who represent both the blue and the gray and the well dressed, all of who exist to some degree behind those barbed wires and bars remain committed to positive change. That is what gives me hope. For all my time in prison, these pervasive influences that keep more than seven million Americans under some type of criminal supervision pulled at my legs like surf in a riptide, threatening to pull me under into the sea of bitterness, revenge and anger. But they didnt drag me under. The simplest of things kept me centered. Sobriety. God. Yoga. Family. A good book. Purposeful activities like learning to play the guitar or learning Spanish or writing whatever I could. My wife. And of course, food. Its a staple. For the first time in my life I learned what comfort food meant, only by its absence. I worked in a prison kitchen for only one week. I was made a cook because I had once owned a couple of restaurants, never mind that I

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Andrew Scot Bolsinger hadnt cooked at either of them. The food, made in huge vats with little thought or care depressed me. Then one day I got to make the tomato soup on my own. I ditched the prison recipe and simply made it from my heart. The murmur around the chow hall grew like a wave, until at last the OIC (officer in- charge) came back to compliment us on the finest tomato soup Ive ever had. I was stunned at how the simple soup swelled the good feeling among the inmates. It warmed like the sun. Guys were still talking about it the next day. A day later the kitchen coordinator asked me if Id like to make the stew. I agreed, even though Id never liked stew. Once again I set off on my own. I grilled the meats and vegetables. I made a roux and slowly worked in the broth. I added an array of dried spices that flecked the rustcolored base with dapples of sunlight. Other kitchen workers came over to sample it. Their reactions filled me with a sense of gratitude. One mimicked having an orgasm as he ate and it felt like a Michelin star. Weeks later, long after I had been assigned to a different job, inmates still came up to compliment me on the stew. One day as I passed through the chow line, the kitchen coordinator asked me for my tomato soup recipe. I gave it to her, though Im not sure they ever tried to serve it again. A simple plate of good food can change the hardest of circumstances. Americas prisons right now meet that description. It will take a great many to change. A tipping point of energy to shift the public will. But once it shifts fully rest assured the movement has already begun true reform can come at a rapid pace to end this epidemic of incarceration.

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Spreads Maybe a taste of Spreads will plant a seed that will grow in empathy and understanding into something vital in that process. One can only hope.

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Andrew Scot Bolsinger EPILOGUE

I spent 51 months in prison. Thats really not much in prison terms, where a grip is usually about 10 years or more. These recipes are just a sample. Real jailhouse chefs make mind-blowingly good food from these same awful ingredients, a testament to the will to live better and enjoy something even in a place where such hopes die. I offer these to build a bridge. Ive reached back inside to others I knew there. I will post their recipes on my website, www.criminalU.com along with snippets of who these people are. Because really, thats the point. We are people, not the labels that define us like felon and con and INMATE emblazoned in bright orange across our backs and legs. We screwed up. We are screwed up. But we are people. And the more everyone connects with that, the better the hope for lasting change. On the website you will also find a growing list of the many others who are working hard from both sides of the debate to find solutions. Inmate populations are a difficult group to deal with. Ask any inmate and we will tell you. We are our worst enemy. Just about any stereotype that can be said about inmates, and any Hollywood myth perpetrated springs from a well of truth. But these are not cartoon characters. They are people. If you only do one thing, share a meal. It might just build a lasting bridge of change.

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Spreads To learn more about my life within the industrial prison complex and how it is designed to educate inmates to become better criminals, order my book, Criminal U: Behind the Barbed Wire of Americas Prisons. Visit http://www.criminalu.com for more information. And no prison recipe book would be complete without a tip of the hat to the one food consumed more than any other by virtually every man or woman ever locked up behind bars: Oatmeal. I must have eaten two thousand bowls of oatmeal (in prison you count virtually everything. Days, stairs, laps on the track, number of books read, number of pushups, and yes, number of bowls of oatmeal eaten. For the record I ran more than 2,000 miles, read more than 300 books, ate more than 1,000 veggie trays, had served exactly 1,111 days on the most important Monday of my life and served another 437 days after that you get the point but I digress). When you eat two thousand servings of anything, its virtually definitional that you mix it up as much as you possibly can. Im reasonably certain thats how the whole idea of pizza toppings came to be. Pizza is the only meal I spent an hour circling the track verifying this in my mind, so I say this on good authority I ate more times in my life than oatmeal or prison veggie trays. Prison veggie trays are impregnable to variation. Every prison in Oregon served the same items: raw vegetables, salad, leftover bread, a bowl of plain rice and bowl of plain beans. I ate these religiously despite the monotony. I also ate oatmeal religiously, but mixed it up. I tried any number of things in the oatmeal. This recipe is the best I found within the confines of barbed wire. To my own surprise, I still eat it out here in the free world, if that says anything. Maybe someday it will

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Andrew Scot Bolsinger surpass pizza on my frequency chart, but I doubt it. Pizzas still the one. Anyway, heres the recipe:

CELLBLOCK OATMEAL Ingredients: Half a tumbler of oats Big scoop of peanut butter Scoop of whey protein Spoonful of fiber powder Splash of salt Splash of cinnamon Smashed up Banana

Instructions: 1) Mix all dry ingredients into the oats. 2) Lightly smoosh the banana, which is most likely already done since the only way to get a banana is to stuff it your pants as you leave the chow hall and for fleeting moment know what it feels like to be endowed like a porn star. 3) Pour hot water (about half what youd expect soupy oatmeal blows it really should be like spackle) on to the oat mix and stir. 4) Add the banana and mash up a bit, with a dash more water if necessary. 44

Spreads 5) Swirl in the peanut butter. Dont fully merge it. You want hunks of peanut butter tastes, like a surprise. Oatmeal needs all the surprises it can get. 6) Add a final dash of salt.

And as Forrest Gump liked to say, thats all I got to say about that.. for now anyway.

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