Today in My History

2000: A Life in Declarative Sentences
2001: Chewing the Air
2002: Look At Me, I'm Flyyyyying
2003: Over the Rainbow
2004: The Princess in My Motel Room
2005: Twenty Questions
2006:  Going Batty

2007: Dog Days of Summer

2008: Letting My Voice Be Heard
Socialist Agenda
2010: And So It Begins
2011: Going on 93
2012: Cheers
2013: Just Hangin' in Yalta

2014: There Will Be Blood a Letter

Bitter Hack
Updated: 8/24
"Bars and Measures"

Books Read in 2015
 Updated: 9/3

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The Philosophy of Juice & Crackers

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8 September 2015

Chacun a son gout is a French phrase that means "to each his own taste," and doesn't necessarily refer strictly to just food, but to anything about which you have an opinion.  For the purpose of this entry, however, it will refer to food.

I remember when Walt's mother started getting old...and then my own mother...and how whenever we went to a restaurant they would get angry because they were served too much food and couldn't possibly finish.  And, having grown up in the Depression, they didn't want to leave it behind.

I knew it was useless to point out that not everyone had the small appetites that they did and that the serving was designed to serve the average eater.

In those days we went to normal American restaurants with big steaks or slabs of prime rib or some other animal delicacy.  I loved them.  The rarer the better.  A big slab of still almost mooing prime rib with a bowl of creamy horseradish sauce was like dying and going to heaven.

Now I'm getting old and I find that I'm the one whose ability to polish off a meal has changed.

At home I serve myself a plate about half the size of Walt's and then end up giving a good deal of that to the dogs, or to Walt. I can't really finish a hamburger any more.  That's really a surprise.  When I cook chicken I give Walt 2 pieces and myself 1 and I don't finish the one (a thigh).  My stomach just can't handle as much food at dinner any more.

Breakfast may be different.  I can load up at breakfast, but by the end of the afternoon, I'm stuffed.

I also seem to be developing a distaste for beef.  I don't cook nearly as much of it as I used to and when I see commercials for restaurants like Outback Steak, showing their thick juicy steaks, it almost makes me nauseous.

I find I'm buying less and less beef.  I look at the beef in the refrigerator and even if it weren't astronomically priced, it doesn't inspire me to want to cook it at all.  I bought two small lamb chops today and lamb still tastes good and doesn't turn me off but I still could only eat half of mine.  But lamb is expensive too.

And salt!  I'm the salt kid.  I'm the person who would salt anything before tasting it and then salt it some more while eating it.  Now I find many things too salty for me.  I finally had Walt check the taste of the sausage they served at Atria the other day to see if he agreed that it was way too salty.  He didn't.  A hot dog they served recently I had to leave because it was way too salty, which I found odd for a place full of old people with probable cardiac problems. Of course that's probably a good thing.

I guess I'm just getting old and my tastes are changing.

Did I just say I'm getting old???  Shame on me!!!!

I took two teeny cupcakes at the market today and brought them to my mother for her real birthday.  Of course she didn't remember it was her birthday <g>.  They were each two bites, so she ate hers without complaint.

I decided after 30 minutes if I had to talk about how old she was one more minute I was going to scream.  Thirty minutes and all she wanted to talk about was how old she is, how she hates being old, how she hates the bruise on her arm and just wants to get a knife and cut it out because it's ugly.  And, oh by the way, she's getting old, you know.  God, I wish the woman was interested in anything besides her age and her physical appearance.  But even when I was answering (again) what exciting thing I had been doing (going to Dave's memorial yesterday) she interrupted me to say 'Oh god, I'm old."  Today she tells me she doesn't ever want to die. 

That may kill me.


The teeny cupcakes I took to my mother for her birthday.


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