Eating Behind Bars
When food is an active form of punishment.
Hey everyone. Today, Kate and I had Leslie Soble on the podcast. Leslie is a Senior Program Manager at Impact/Justice and an internationally recognized voice on the carceral eating experience, a topic that Kate and I both take a lot of interest in—and one that we’re hoping to continue to cover. We hope you’ll listen to the interview, and that you’ll read the below excerpt from Chapter 1 (“Gastronomic Cruelty”) of Leslie’s new book, Eating Behind Bars: Ending the Hidden Punishment of Food in Prison, which she wrote with Alex Busansky and Aishatu R. Yusuf. Please note that the excerpt has been lightly edited for length purposes. – Mark
Theo, who was incarcerated in a northwestern state prison, still remembers an entire month of meals featuring limp, boiled cabbage, its lingering odor permeating the chow hall. Across the country, Nate recalls his friend letting out a sigh as he sat down to his “four-hundred-somethingth” water-logged and tasteless spaghetti dinner in their facility in the Northeast.
Like every other aspect of life in prison, the food is dreary, monotonous and, with few exceptions, relentlessly bad: two slimy pieces of bologna sandwiched between flimsy slices of white bread, a packet of mustard, and a handful of potato chips one day; two boiled hot dogs, the same white bread, and a scoop of underbaked beans the next. There are similar concoctions that go by different names—casserole, goulash, hash—in which chunks of mystery meat swim in a dull gravy, often atop mushy white rice or overcooked macaroni and, as Nate and his friend experienced, a clump of noodles with the same watery tomato sauce week after week.
The food in prison bears little resemblance in color, aroma, taste, and texture to real food—food that people crave because it’s genuinely nourishing.
Served on a tray and masquerading as pasta, stew, or a sandwich, the food in prison bears little resemblance in color, aroma, taste, and texture to real food—food that people crave because it’s genuinely nourishing. Describing meals in the Northeastern facility where he is incarcerated, Joshua says, “There is no one here who would eat this three times a day by choice or feed it to their family on the outside,” capturing the general sentiment among those who have spent time in prison.
While many facilities make an effort to prepare better-tasting meals on holidays—turkey and mashed potatoes on Thanksgiving, hamburgers and watermelon on the Fourth of July—the everyday fare tends to range from bland to awful. When asked to describe the food, one person wrote, “a nasty, mushy, goulash-type mixture,” while another recalled “rubbery, chewy slop on a plate.” Several people we interviewed compared it to “wet dog food,” with one person adding that the actual dogs working in the prison were fed better than the incarcerated population. Even officers describe the food as “monotonous,” “poor quality,” and “detrimental to the well-being of the inmate population.” Daniel Rosen, co-founder of the Coalition for Carceral Nutrition, who spent six years total in jail in Washington, DC, and in prison in Virginia, refers to the food as “gastronomic cruelty,” emphasizing the deliberate lack of care that generally goes into providing meals to people who are incarcerated.
Several staff members we interviewed reported witnessing spoiled food being served in the facilities where they work. One concerned officer shared, “Guys show me expiration dates two years old on their meat products.” Marcy Croft, an attorney representing 230 incarcerated individuals in a class-action lawsuit against the Mississippi Department of Corrections, points out, “They aren’t asking for five-star meals. They’re just asking for food that’s edible and that can keep them alive—it’s a very basic request.”
[One] formerly incarcerated person remembers seeing egg crates stenciled with the warning: “For prison use only.” “It doesn’t do well for the mind to see things like that,” the person said.
Numerous formerly incarcerated individuals assigned to work in their prison’s kitchen recall being required to cook and serve packages of chicken and beef marked “not for human consumption.” In one case, they were even instructed to incorporate a soy-based dog food filler—a practice that was discontinued only after someone stole the label and filed a complaint. One incarcerated person wrote to the Incarcerated Workers Organizing Committee, “It says on the bags of hot cereal ‘not for human consumption’ and has the picture of the head of a horse.” Such abuses have a long history. Rosa remembers being served VitaPro, a substance intended as cattle feed, in the 1990s. “Texas was being sued for serving it to their inmates, but [our state] continued to serve it to us, and did so until they got sued as well.” Another formerly incarcerated person remembers seeing egg crates stenciled with the warning: “For prison use only.” “It doesn’t do well for the mind to see things like that,” the person said.
Individuals sometimes create makeshift meals by sandwiching toothpaste between toilet paper, salt packages, and antacids to soothe hunger pains—a remedy colloquially known as “toothpaste tacos.”
Between inedible food and tiny portion sizes, incarcerated people generally don’t get enough to eat. Over 94 percent of those we surveyed reported not having enough food to feel full while they were incarcerated. Some resort to desperate measures just to have something in their bellies. In Nevada prisons, for example, individuals sometimes create makeshift meals by sandwiching toothpaste between toilet paper, salt packages, and antacids to soothe hunger pains—a remedy colloquially known as “toothpaste tacos.”
Humans are hardwired and acculturated to imbue food with meaning far beyond mere survival. Psychologically and emotionally, people naturally connect food with places, events, cherished memories, the common rhythms of life, and a sense of belonging. Chicago is famous for deep-dish pizza, New Orleans for gumbo, New Mexico for enchiladas smothered in sauce made from the state’s vibrant red or green chiles. Drinking hot chocolate on a cold winter’s day or lighting candles on a birthday cake is a cherished ritual for many people. Homemade bread warm from the oven may evoke memories of a beloved grandmother, while a Popsicle fresh out of the freezer recalls the endless summers of childhood.
There’s a simmering pot of black-eyed peas to mark the New Year in many Southern homes, the sizzle of Hanukkah latkes frying in oil, the sticky sweetness of dates to break the Ramadan fast, and the pillowy softness of pan de muerto to welcome ancestral spirits on Día de los Muertos. Across the country, there are innumerable variations of chicken soup for the flu and comforting dishes after funerals. Pints of ice cream soothe a broken heart and steaming cups of coffee greet new days. Food blurs the boundaries between our biological, social, and cultural selves; even simple food, if it tastes good and is made with care, helps us feel whole.
On March 18, 2020, as the COVID-19 crisis took hold, Sam Sifton titled his daily New York Times food column “Deliciousness Matters.” In it, he wrote, “Deliciousness improves moods, and inspires hope. Deliciousness sends a message. Someone cares.” Food served to the nearly 2 million people incarcerated across the United States typically has the opposite effect. Alicia sums it up well: The food “devalued me, and I still devalue myself because of it.”
Copyright © 2025 by Impact Justice. This excerpt originally appeared in Eating Behind Bars: Ending the Hidden Punishment of Food in Prison, published by The New Press. Reprinted here with permission.
Begin with baking bread and churning butter on the premises; teaching the youngest prisoners how to do this first. This would change everything, and stimulate real rehabilitation amongst the prisoners and staff. Then, start weeding out all the ultra processed food products, one by one.