Feed the Prisoners

“Feed your prisoners,” I yelled to my friend Eppie, at the other end of the line, on the eve of her birthday.

Eppie was no prison guard and her hostages were no suspected terrorists. She had in her garage the live crabs and lobsters that she had bought from Chinatown for her birthday lunch the following day. Earlier, when she had called to tell me about her magnificent finds, I had warned her that they might escape. I had suggested that she put them in her bathtub filled with water then lay a mosquito net over them (if she had one here in Toronto) but she strongly rejected the idea. They would stay in the pails and basins in the basement.

In the evening I called her up to tell her to feed her prisoners. I had remembered that when I bought live curachas (sea crabs that look like lobsters) in Zamboanga, the vendor put some greens in the box so that they would not get hungry on the plane ride.

But Eppie strictly said no to food for her prisoners. In the Bisayas, the crustaceans have to undergo a colonic cleansing called “laming” before being cooked, therefore: NO LAST SUPPER ALLOWED.