Naturally, when mentioning changes of taste, we first think of foods. But, of course, we change clothes styles, figures of speech, even politics as we age. Well, some do.
These thoughts started as I watched my first tomato fulfill its redness daily for a week. Going too slowly from a faint hue, to yellow, to orangeish to red was a strain on my tastebuds.
My love of wanting to pick that red tomato and eat it right from the vine (quickly) is deep and everlasting. Each ripening day I’d take a salt shaker to my patch of three tomato vines and drool.
Finally, last week, that day came. Rejoice, Christians! Everything will be fine. As Ray Stevens recorded, ‘Everything Is Beautiful!?
Oh, that wonderful flavor, especially after trying vine ripened, hothouse grown, Romas, Florida, California and various South American tomatoes.
No tomato has the delicious flavor of a Michigan-grown tomato. In case you missed it, I like our state’s tomatoes.
Others, especially some in-laws and at least one grandchild, do not share my enthusiasm. Luan’s husband, Bob, picks them from his wife’s legitimate salad while protesting tomatoes even being in the house. He’s convinced granddaughter Karen to likewise reject these tasters? rewards.
Our kids (Jim, Luan and Susan) are normal.
That is not true when it comes to some other foods. I dislike watermelon, yams and Scotch. Susan likes watermelon, Luan yearns yams and Jim slurps Scotch. I don’t know where Susan got her melon taste, but Luan has her mother’s love of that root and Jim got his taste all on his own.
Well, I started out mentioning taste changes, and I’m getting back to it. I never liked apple pie as a youth. Now I sometimes pick it over cherry and pecan.
I can’t eat orange marmalade straight, but will put a dab in my frozen sweet and sour chicken meal. Beef tongue has been a favorite my entire life, but these days the butchers I’ve met won’t even order it for me.
I love corned-beef hash, but ‘chefs? like to invent it for their menu. They’ll leave the beef too stringy, warm it (like from a can) and not fry it, make it too mushy or do something to it that catsup can’t suppress.
Used to be I’d always wear pullover golf shirts, the ones with short sleeves, a collar and pocket. Today, these shirt makers are unpredictable . . . sleeves vary in length too much, may be collarless and pockets are gone.
So, to heck with these golf shirt maker pretenders. I’ve gone to conventional short sleeve, dress shirts, button-up style. They may not be as stretchy as those knit golf shirts, but neither am I.
Just as we change our tastes for food and clothes, we change habits, too. It has to be a major occasion, like The Second Coming, to keep me from climbing those stairs to my welcoming bed at 10 p.m.
There were days long ago when that hour was time to debate going to a movie, dancing or tavern.
It has not always been a habit to brush my teeth in the morning, wash my armpits, do a crossword puzzle, make my bed or pray. The latter is still growing habit. I’ve been told that’s an aging thing, too.
Ah, well, you can take it from here and write down the habits, foods and styles that have changed for you. It may not get you away from Wheel of Fortune, or a CSI, but it’s better than plucking eyebrows.
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How come it takes so little time for a child who is afraid of the dark to become a teenager who wants to stay out all night?