Wit and Wisdom

by Beth Broderick

It happens on a regular basis. I will poor myself a glass of wine from a favorite bottle of Chardonnay and think, “Ewww. Yuck. I hate this.” I have learned from experience, however, not to pour it down the drain in disappointment. I simply pour it back into the bottle and re-cork it and plan to visit it another day. This is because there is a very good chance that a glass of wine from the very same bottle will taste delicious on the morrow.

This is happening with a wide variety of foods and beverages now. One day I love that bite of cheese, the next day I spit it out in distaste. This is especially true of the condiment that I adore and cannot live without. The item that is always stashed in my carry-on in small portable packets. The great, creamy wonder sauce that makes all things more delicious. Mayonnaise.

I f—king love mayonnaise.

I have four different kinds of it in my refrigerator at any given time, because I go off first one then another and so need a variety in rotation in case my steadily declining faculties of taste and smell decide against a former favorite. There is the vegan one, “Just Mayo”, which I love until I don’t. There is another plant -based one from Hellman’s that is not bad and is faintly reminiscent of Miracle Whip, which my mother ate exclusively. An acquired taste to be sure, but it was all we knew as kids. It was not until I moved to New York City and tried real proper mayonnaise that I knew what I had been missing. There is also the kind made from olive oil and of course the standard Best Foods cholesterol-be-damned classic mayo.

A quick dive on the internet reveals many, many articles which discuss the phenomenon of changing tastes in us as we age. This is mostly attributed to a decline in our ability to smell, though I have a strong aversion to many odors, particularly body odors. Some people just smell weird to me. So, my sniffer, though unreliable, is definitely intact. Our taste buds themselves also begin to deteriorate. This makes sense, of course. Mother Nature is sending some not so subtle hints, as she begins the long process of convincing us to slide off of this mortal coil.

My Dad spoke of this often and with great frustration. He was a foodie and for the last two years of his life would wax poetic about foods he missed, wanted to eat again. Brown bread in a can. I loved it as a child; it is a weird Midwest thing, I think, though the name of it is Boston Baked Brown Bread, so who knows. We found it and ordered it for him and warmed the can, then we all shared a bite. I must report that from my adult point of view it was some nasty stuff. My palate gave a hard no to it. and no amount of re-tasting could change that. No just no.

He dreamt of lamb chops with mint jelly. I had to have the jelly delivered, because no store in his small town carried it. I carefully marinated the lamb chops and seared them in a hot iron skillet. He took two bites, then sat back with his arms folded. The taste was not what he remembered. This went on with a large eccentric menu of dishes that he longed to eat again, but ultimately could not. He said the only taste he really could register was sweet. This led to him asking for candies and cakes and pies that he remembered from childhood. I searched out Mincemeat and Look Bars and Necco wafers and I never arrived to visit without a box of See’s Candies peanut brittle.

My Mom’s last years were one big trip to sugar town. Her freezer was chock full of sweet foods:

Honey Dipped Corn Dogs

Drumstick Ice Cream Cones

Rocky Road Ice Cream

Neapolitan Ice Cream Sandwiches

Trader Joe’s Orange Chicken (Also full of sugar, but a nod to nutrition,)

Her countertops overflowed with her absolute favorite Caramel Popcorn, which she lost more than one tooth crunching into. Her refrigerator contained Coca Cola and champagne, both of which soothed her throat, which was always sore from chain smoking and the slowly growing cancer it had caused.

If I took her to her favorite place, Denny’s, she would order the French Toast platter with extra syrup and gleefully drench her meal in it. Afterwards we would stop at Ross and pick up more Caramel Corn and cookies. Then we would head to her favorite bakery for brownies and blondies. They also served ice cream, so I would get her double scoop to eat in the car on the way home. Mom was rail-thin and had zero interest in eating right or exercise or any of the recommended behaviors we are supposed to pursue for our health. She sat in her big chair, watched her programs, read People magazine, washed her cigarettes down with Cola and scotch, and had an ever-present bowl of gooey corn by her side. She lived to be 83 and died on her own terms. Dad made it to 93 and heard his own drum to the last. They had a pretty darned good run.

Here is the conclusion from a study run by Pub Med:

Conclusion: Losses of taste and smell are common in the elderly and result from normal aging, certain disease states (especially Alzheimer disease), medications, surgical interventions, and environmental exposure. Deficits in these chemical senses cannot only reduce the pleasure and comfort from food but represent risk factors for nutritional and immune deficiencies as well as adherence to specific dietary regimens. Chemosensory decrements can lead to food poisoning or overexposure to environmentally hazardous chemicals that are otherwise detectable by taste and smell. Use of flavor-enhanced food can increase enjoyment of food and have a positive effect on food intake and immune status.

Whew.

SEASONED.

The take-away? We are all going to experience change in our tastes as we grow older. Both of my parents ended up eating very little toward the end and what they did consume was not exactly healthy stuff, but it kept them alive. Why drink Ensure when there is champagne in the house? They both spent their lives working in hospitals. They had seen a lot of illness and more than their fair share of death. They knew they were lucky to live so long, and they weren’t about to compromise in a vain attempt to extend their stay. They wanted what they wanted, and they got it, death be damned.

There is a good chance I will end up taking a page from their playbook. After a lifetime of discipline, of food combining and rigorous exercise, of zero-carb days and step-counting, it might be fun to dive headfirst into a plate of maple-laden French toast. I am not sure how I will approach those final years when they are upon me. Right now, it seems doubtful that I will indulge in Dad’s favorite breakfast of pie with ice cream and champagne but check back with me if I make it to 91. All bets will be off.

I draw the line at candied popcorn though. Ewww. Yuck. I hate that!

On we go …

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