I was quite dismayed to learn recently that inmates on America’s notorious death row are no longer allowed to request a last meal.

Now, I must make it clear that this decision does not affect me personally in any way – at least not yet. I have no desire to move to the United States, nor do I have any intention of committing a heinous crime there, regardless of the country I reside in.

I simply believe that in these most serious cases, when a man or woman’s life is taken by decree of the state, one last example of human compassion should be shown.

In addition to recognizing their humanity, such a gesture also offers an opportunity to demonstrate a final act of decency – a decency that the perpetrator may not have extended to his victims. An act that is indeed thought-provoking.

Given the imminence of their earthly death, it must be a herculean task for perpetrators to work up enough appetite to enjoy a meal of any kind, let alone the lavish feast that many of us would probably order if asked – the contents of death row meals are a common, light-hearted conversation thread popular at dinner parties and in getting to know each other.

Predictably, here lies the problem. Research has shown that one particular prisoner put an end to the practice of allowing choice of meals. Fulfilling his numerous requests required a great deal of effort and expense – and in the end he refused to eat a single bite. It’s possible he had the last laugh, but I guess he just couldn’t take it.

For those of us lucky enough to be selective in our daily consumption, food is not just a necessity but a pleasure: fuel for the body, mind, senses and social gatherings around the world.

I’m a huge fan of savoury and sweet things – as my dentist would no doubt attest – but my favourite food group, which I exclude from all others, is fruit. Peaches, plums, nectarines – all stone fruit. Grapes, cherries and berries of all kinds. Citrus in all its bright glory. Kiwis, melons, coconuts, mangos – bring on the tropics. Gooseberries, rhubarb, blackcurrants – tart and delicious. Pears – as long as they’re firm. Bananas – almost green, please. Lychees, passion fruit, quince – all the fragrant goodness.

But at the top of my list, due to its diversity, is the undisputed champion: the humble apple. Even as a small child, I developed an (admittedly dubious) inclination to devour every bite of this fruit, skin and core, except for the stem (although I could often be persuaded if the variety were a Cox Pippin).

This stood me in good stead on long car journeys and when eating on the go, and also left me unaffected by the woeful shortage of public trash cans (I wouldn’t throw out even with a well-eaten kernel, but outside I occasionally succumb to the urge to throw away a stem).

As a bonus, I have the assurance that, like the legendary King Mithridates VI, whose paranoid suspicions about poison-wielding assassins led him to ingest tiny but regularly recurring doses of various poisons to build up immunity, none of my sworn enemies would be able to kill me with cyanide: apple seeds contain, in their shiny tears, tiny amounts of the chemical that this substance releases, and after 40 years of conscious exposure to the substance, I must surely have developed a resistance to its harmful properties (of course, I would prefer you not to put this hypothetical theory to the test).

Of course, there are some apple varieties that I prefer to others: Golden Delicious, unless very fresh, is a disappointment; Gala can be too sweet; Braeburn not always just the thing. But a first-class Granny Smith is simply heavenly, its white-spotted, thick, shiny, deep green skin conceals the sweet and spicy delicacies of the lightest flesh. Russet, with its matte, brown skin, is a fragrant and unexpected delight. And the aforementioned Cox, the autumn harvest, whose rough, reddish skin provides the perfect crunch, is an exquisite experience.

Recently, while visiting a friend, I spotted a veritable pile of apples in her fruit bowl that I dared to hope might be Discovery apples. My friend confirmed my suspicions and added to the fruit’s appeal by telling me that her fiancé had picked them from his own tree and that, since there were so many, I was welcome to take some home with me.

I was thrilled and carried my prize triumphantly up into the air, already imagining how I would eat the apple together with an extra-ripe cheese – the perfect accompaniment.

And that, I think, would be my choice for food on death row, should I ever find myself in that inglorious position: the perfect apple, cored and quartered, served with chunks of cheek-burning cheddar. Oh, and leave the core on the plate—I chose death by lethal injection of cyanide.