Beech Tree News Network

I’m sure there must have been countless studies conducted on the age at which a person develops his or her tastes for different foods.  I’m not aware of the age consensus, but for me, it was before the age of five.  I know this, because I was put in the unique position of having been raised by a grandmother until that age then having been separated from that same grandmother for sixteen years.  The first time I (as an adult) went with my grandmother to the grocery store, I could have done the shopping for her—without a list.  Everything she put into that shopping cart were items I, myself, had a preference for.  There were orange cupcakes, liver loaf, apple pie, grapefruit juice and pickled beets, just to name a few.  It was a real eye-opener to understand that my food preferences had developed at that tender age.
    When my husband, Garey, and I met, one of my favorite lunch combinations was a liver loaf sandwich, chips, and a Big Red soda.  He gagged just watching me eat it.  I thought it was strange that his family ate fruit on sandwiches.  Garey preferred banana and peanut butter, whereas his sister, Charlotte, leaned toward pineapple and mayonnaise.  Not wanting to be accused of being a culinary snob, I fixed banana sandwiches for my daughters when they were children.  I will even eat one myself from time to time, although Garey still gags at the sight of a liver loaf sandwich.  I guess liver loaf and Big Red are tastes you have to develop as a child, an age when your taste buds are fearless.
    When I was growing up my dad and stepmom ate stuff that made my taste buds run screaming in the opposite direction.  On the farm, we always killed our own hogs; and because my parents grew up during the Great Depression, they didn’t believe in wasting any part of the animal.  I enjoyed the bacon and cured hams and pork chops.  I helped grind sausage and stirred cracklins in the big iron kettle, but I wouldn’t touch some of what my parents considered culinary delights. 
    They would take the brain of the pig, remove the film, and soak it in salt water overnight.  The next morning, my stepmom would whip up a batch of brains and scrambled eggs.  They would also make souse, commonly known as head cheese—yes, it was made out of the pig’s head.  I can still see the eyes staring at me from the kitchen table where the head sat perched waiting for the transformation.  I would occasionally eat liver or backbone, if that was all that was on the table.  I considered myself a daring individual for going that far.
    I’ve noticed about myself that the older I get, the more set in my food ways I get.  I don’t try as many varieties or even variations as I used to.  My youngest daughter, Nikki, noticed this on her last trip home.  She said, “You guys used to encourage me to try new food and not be so picky, and now you’re the one who doesn’t want to try new food.  What’s up?”  She was right, of course. (Nikki has lived or worked or visited coastal communities around the world, and she has eaten things that would keep me up nights.)
    I didn’t know how to explain to her that I have reached a point in my life where my body—my taste buds in general—just can’t take the shock of the unexpected anymore.  It’s mind-boggling to try to grasp all of the things you are constantly challenged to learn, re-learn or unlearn—what’s up with Pluto getting kicked out of the solar system anyway?  There’s email to check, Face Book notifications to scan, smart phones to figure out and remotes to keep up with.  I just can’t jump through one more hoop.  Give me my beans and cornbread with my recliner and evening news and go in peace.  Your calamari and pickled pigs feet await.