Taste

When taste goes almost entirely away (water tastes very odd now), you start to learn just how central taste and eating is to your day and to being social. When you share food you expect that it will please the other--it's disappointing to disappoint them. "Thank you, it seems very nutritous." 'But the food you hoped would be delicious tastes like nothing at all.' You feel like their effort was wasted on you.

(I shouldn't say nothing tastes of anything--an apple tastes like a cucumber that's gone bitter. No clue why.)

Anyway, I walk near the kitchen and think "I've got a taste for peanut butter." OK, I can have some (I need to push the proteins and fats), but the taste ... not happening. And the swallowing is harder now. "Would you like to share this banana with me?" "You're tired; shall we order something?" Courteous, and even loving, but something's missing.

I'd never given much thought to it before, but taste suffuses much of my day.

That, together with a patch of nerveless flesh, could be a more-than-daily reminder of how contingent and temporary I am, and a reminder to be grateful for even the simplest things--like touch. It could be a little like a fast. But, habits are strong, and I get distracted easily. I'll try to remember.