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An Hour After the Last Train — Peter Gutierrez American Goulash Jennifer Benningfield I work in a prison kitchen. Most meals are the same bland, unimaginative offerings associated with hooskow chow: cold soup, warm bologna sandwiches, soggy potatoes and recombinant hot dogs. Once a month, though, the state allows one of us to act out our dink-butt Top Chef fantasies and concoct a no-kidding meal. Last month, Charlie wowed our brutally jaded diners with pork ribs rubbed to perfection, macaroni and cheese cooked at optimal temperature, and sweet cornbread unable to double as a weapon. This month was mine. My nerves dependably performed a drunken trapeze act at just the thought, ever since straws were drawn. The Day fell on the first Wednesday, as it has been decreed all The Days will. Some silliness about “getting over the hump.” Supervising me--all of us, always--is Grant, a convoy of waxy-white flesh whose poorly-oiled breaths vary from mildly annoying to astonishingly aggravating as he prowls the kitchen, making damn sure the cooks are parsing out ingredients with cups and spoons rather than trusting our