Collins Clifton jr - Prison Ramen : Recipes And Stories From Behind Bars

Workman Publishing New York

I dedicate this book to my parents.forgive me for being a thief of your dreams, but thank you for showing me what unconditional love really means.
G.A.

To my grandparents, Pedro Gonzalez Gonzalez and Leandra Aguirre Gonzalez. Without their love and understanding, who knows where Id be today. And to Josh Huttenberger 5/25/199611/1/2014.
C.C.

From Gustavo Goose Alvarez:

Clifton Collins Jr., Im eternally grateful to have you in my life; you are a true friend.

Special thanks to my loving sister, Sandra Luna, for supporting me during my lowest points, giving me hope at those times when I felt hopeless, and, of course, keeping the flame lit for this project in ways too numerous to list.

To Kenia, with faith all things are possible. Love you always.

To Pastor Phil Serrano and Dave Mojaro, behind bars. During the darkest hours of my life, a word of encouragement from you would brighten my day, giving me steady hope.

Thank you to my lovely children for their patience and love while they watched their dad involve himself in a project that probably didnt make a lot of sense to them at the time.

To any youngster on the brink of detention: Heed my lessons. I dedicate this book to you also, with great love and respect.

From Clifton Collins Jr.:

To my sister Veronica, for being that moral compass in times when I could not find my way.

To Pat Barrett, for showing me the value of a big bro and mentor at such a young age.

To my boy Goose, who pitched this idea in the visitation yard with the smell of burnt prison dorms still fresh in the air.

Special thanks to my long-trusted friend and lawyer, David Krintzman, for always believing in me and having a solution to seemingly never-ending obstacles. Danielle Josephs, whose presence and hard work would always get us through the day. Tim Cadiente, for his creative support throughout the years and passion for our project that kept us going in times when we thought we couldnt. The Agency Groups Marc Gerald, for taking a chance on this way out-of-the-box project. Molly Derse, for her kind, caring ways. And, of course, that beast of a house Workman Publishing, with Mary Ellen ONeill, a passionate talent, collaborator, and godsend; and Selina Meere, with her publicity wisdom. And a giant thanks to all my friends for contributing to this book. I love you guys!

H unger! Quite possibly the first thing we feel entering this thing called life. A breast or a bottle quells it in the beginning, but it always returns, nagging, nagging, nagging, throughout our existence. Some of us have been fortunate enough to beat it back on the regular, others not so much. Ive been on both sides of that pronouncement. As a kid, I was well fed by my Southern grandparents, aunts, and neighbors. In the summers, I was on a farm where all I could eat was right at hand. I could pick apples, pears, corn, berries, or anything that grew within my reach. It wasnt until I left home in pursuit of my future that I met real hunger, the hunger that wont let you sleep, study, or think about anything but hunger. Being broke makes you hungrier; it also makes you inventive and creative. Trix with water or Kool-Aid can be tasty. A stolen loaf of bread with mayo, scrumptious! Sardines and crackers, a righteous feast! But nothing prepared me for the inexpensive, filling, soul-refreshing discovery of Ramen and the wonders and complete joy it would bring at my lowest and hungriest times of need. These recipes make me smile and laugh out loud with joy, memory, and awe at their total culinary genius. All born from a bond of pure hunger!

Samuel L. Jackson

O ne hot day in August, there was a prison riot at the California Institution for Men in Chino. I was halfway through a six-year sentence, the father of young children, and I wanted nothing to do with extending my time in that hellhole. But the race riot that unfolded that night was inescapable.

I was with a group of Southern California Hispanics, outnumbered and trapped in the last surviving dorm. Fires raged all around us. More than one hundred angry men were doing everything possible to break down a secured door. Their only desire was to maim or preferably kill us. We were pretty much doomedwe knew it, they knew it. The only thing I had left in that shithole worth fighting for were the pictures of my kids taped to my locker shelf. So we prepared ourselves for the massacre, lacing up and wrapping towels around our necks to protect our jugulars. There were two Christian brothers in our dorm just praying. It was pretty grim.

And then, as the door began to give way and the rioting inmates were just about to storm in, two older guys ran to our aid. They were OGsOriginal Gang members of the Cripsand they stood between us and the bloodthirsty attackers.

They must have argued for two hours, until finally the rioting inmates backed down. The lines of race and gang affiliation are deeper in prison than anywhere else, so the fact that these African American guys defended usHispanicsagainst their own brothers is practically unheard of.

Since fires were still raging, and the door to our dorm was now jammed, we and our enemies were both trapped. They were outside in the prison yard, freezing and huddled up. I noticed one of the OG men passing them the little bit of food he had, from his locker. At that moment I felt it only right to try to return a small portion of a big favor. I gathered all the homies and we began to cook all our Ramen and commissary. We made huge spreads, jugs of coffee, and snacks. We shoved all the blankets and mattresses we could fit through the door they had once attempted to break down to kill us. Most of them were just kids, barely in their twenties, living and following the same lies we were.

Shortly after this, I received a visit from my childhood friend Clifton. Growing up in the mean streets of West L.A., who would have thought that many years later wed still be friends? We came from the same housing projects, but grew up in different worlds. Cliff was never deep in the game like many others, but he was always in the mix. Squabbling, getting shot at, holding his own in street fights like the rest of us. Then hed bounce the spot and go to an audition. Id get snatched from the spot and go to juvenile hall. This went on for many yearscasting calls for him, county jails for me; movie deals for him, state and federal prisons for me.