Acquired Tastes: A Conspiracy by the Bland & Nasty Tasting Food Lobby

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Right, acquired tastes, my ar*e. You know what they’re really saying, don’t you? “This stuff is grim, but we can’t afford to throw it away.” So here’s three stories about how you, a literal child, was just too simple to appreciate.

Olives. Tiny, wrinkled balls of sadness swimming in brine. Apparently, these were meant to be a delicacy. I once saw a grown man pick one out of a martini like he’d just fished a spider out of his bath. Acquired taste? More like something you have that has to be surgically implanted to enjoy.

Then there’s Brussels sprouts. These little green landmines disguised as vegetables. My mom used to boil them to the point they were basically plant-based marbles. “Just one bite, Kevin,” she’d plead. “They’re good for you!” Good for who? The trash, that’s who.

Years later, I’m at a fancy restaurant with a date. She orders roasted Brussels sprouts with pancetta. Now, pancetta – that’s an acquired taste I can get behind. But the sprouts? I braced myself for the inevitable visit to flavor hell. Except… it wasn’t hell. It was…alright? They were crispy, not soggy. The pancetta added a salty kick. Maybe, just maybe, there was a sliver of truth to that whole “acquired taste” malarkey?

But here’s the thing: it wasn’t some magical transformation. It was simply a matter of preparation. Olives marinated with garlic and herbs? Now we’re talking. Roasted Brussels sprouts with a decent drizzle of balsamic glaze? Sign me up.

Then there was Escargot which always seemed like the Mount Everest of acquired tastes. Tiny little land snails swimming in garlic butter? No thanks, I’ll stick to the gummy worms, please. But then I saw an episode of that travel show where the host slurped one out of its shell with a look of pure bliss on their face. ‘An explosion of savory goodness!’ they declared. Yeah, right. But hey, maybe someday I’ll find myself on a mountaintop in France, gazing out at the rolling vineyards, and suddenly crave a plate of those slimy suckers. Stranger things have happened. Although, knowing me, that mountaintop craving will probably be for a nice, big basket of their world famous Pommes Frites.

So, the next time someone tries to flog off some dubious food with the “acquired taste” line, tell them this: “Listen, if it needs an instruction manual to be enjoyed, it probably shouldn’t be on the menu.”

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Spice of Life

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My father was always a bit of a food adventurist.  He liked vinegar on broccoli, Brussels sprouts and spinach, and potato salad with vinegar and onions instead of mayonnaise.
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City Vs Suburbs

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Right, let’s dissect this whole “city lover” nonsense, shall we? Apparently, some people find the constant assault on the senses invigorating. They crave the feeling of being sardines in a can, jostled by tourists with selfie sticks and businessmen talking loudly into Bluetooth earpieces the size of their brains.

Me? I like a bit of breathing room. I do not need the soundtrack of my life to be a symphony of car horns and jackhammers. Don’t get me wrong, I was born in Boston. I know the city life. Dodging pigeons the size of terriers, navigating a minefield of discarded pizza boxes and overflowing trash cans – that was my childhood.

But then, thank the Lord, my folks moved us to the suburbs. Now, some comedians like to take potshots at suburbia. They paint a picture of Stepford Wives with perfect lawns and identical SUVs. Listen, here’s the thing: I’ll take a neatly mowed lawn over a puddle of questionable origin any day. And as for the SUVs? Well, at least they can fit all the groceries you need without playing Tetris with your shopping bags.

Now, the “anonymity” of city life? More like a recipe for social awkwardness. You want to avoid eye contact with people? Fine, be my guest. But in the suburbs, there’s a sense of community. You know your neighbors, you wave hello, you might even borrow a cup of sugar in a pinch. Sure, you might hear Mrs. Henderson’s yappy poodle serenade the neighborhood at dawn, but at least you know who to blame.

And let us not forget the “hustle and bustle.” Hustle? More like a frantic scramble for the last overpriced parking spot or latte. Bustle? Try dodging a rogue double stroller while wielding a latte. Give me the peace and quiet of my suburban street any day. I can hear myself think. I can grill and eat without dodging pigeons (although the neighborhood squirrels can be a bit of a nuisance).

Look, the city might be your cup of tea. Maybe you thrive on chaos? But for me, the suburbs are a slice of sanity in a world gone…well, let’s just say a world that could use a bigger dose of weed whackers and friendly barbecues. So, the next time you hear someone wax poetic about the “urban experience,” just remember, there’s a whole world of perfectly manicured lawns and friendly (if slightly nosy) neighbors waiting for those who prefer a life less stressful and a touch more…beige.

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Mother’s Little Helper

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Mother’s Little Helper

After a trouble-free pregnancy,  and a complication-free C-section, I gave birth to a healthy baby boy.   We hired a wonderful baby nurse to show us the ropes,  we had loving  grandparents living nearby,  and I was on maternity leave from a job I loved that would wait for me when I was ready to return.

Everything was perfect – or so it seemed – until a few weeks after the birth I found myself often weepy and feeling at sea.

It became apparent I was suffering from postpartum depression,  something more common than I would have guessed.  In fact 1 in 8 women have some aspect of PPD with symptoms that may vary from feelings of sadness,  to extreme anxiety,  or sleeplessness,  or irritability,  or a sense of being overwhelmed.  Some women report feeling suicidal,  or even harboring thoughts of harming the baby.  In my case I remember asking myself,  Is this all there is?

PPD is not completely understood altho the drastic drop in hormones after childbirth may contribute,  and unfortunately there is no sure fire medical cure.   Joining a support group or seeking counseling can help,  altho I did neither.  Instead I told my doctor the nighttime baby feedings were taking a toll,  and I asked him for something to help me sleep.  He gave me a prescription for an anti-anxiety med and warned me not to abuse it –  but for a time I confess I did.

Then thankfully at some point the cloud lifted,  and I stopped popping those pills.  And looking back now I realize that despite the exhaustion and the stress my darker memories are far outweighed by my happier ones,  and I miss those early, hectic years!

(For more on those years see My Brown-Eyed Girl, Stay-at-Home Mom,  Going Back to Work,  Three-Ring Circus, and Our Noisy Nanny)

– Dana Susan Lehrman

Too Many Pills

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I have strived to be healthy, but life had other plans, beginning with severe migraines decades ago. A brilliant neurologist put me on a “cocktail” of medications more than two decades ago to tamp those down. Those account for three of the bottles in the photo and I take those every evening.

While dealing with those migraines, a masseuse mentioned to me that I was a prime candidate for bone loss and asked if I’d ever had my bone density checked. I had not at the time, but asked my internist about it, was checked and already had osteopenia (I am now in full-fledged osteoporosis), so began taking medication for it, which helped, but now I take daily calcium (the big bottle) and an additionally prescribed potassium supplement.

More than 40 years ago, I had extremely mild allergies, but living inside our home during renovation more than two decades ago, tipped me over into a real allergic reaction to dust (as well as some pollens), so I take Singulair on a daily basis as well, and can no longer tolerate being on a construction site. Though I’ve been diagnosed with very mild asthma, I’ll take a puff or two of an inhaler for chorus practice or a concert to insure I have maximum lung capacity, as it decreases as we ages.

For some reason, over the past eight years, I’ve been plagued by styes in my eyelids (I’ve had severe dry eye for more than 30 years), which require a lot of hot compresses, but also antibiotic eye drops and pills. I’ve had two in different eyes since February. This time, my doctor has put me on a low dose of doxycycline for three months to try to prevent any further attacks, but now I must be careful in the sun, as I am very susceptible to sunburn. Always something, right?

The indignities of aging are hitting home with increasing frequency these days. I had ankle surgery in late January, which went smoothly. The joint was fine, but loads of inflammation was discovered in the capsule around the joint so I will see a rheumatologist in October to try and discover why. I took none of the prescribed pain-killers, but the recovery has taken longer than I anticipated. Our bodies do not snap back as quickly as they once did. I must learn patience and acceptance but I still want to dance at my 50th Brandeis reunion in September.

 

Mending Fences: An Exercise In Futility

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Right, friendships. Those things we forge in the furnace of youth, fueled by shared baseball card collections and a desperate need for someone to understand our Nirvana obsession. But then, like a dodgy takeout of Indian curry, they often leave a sour aftertaste – only this time lasting far into adulthood.

Why? Well, let’s be honest. People change. Me, once the resident class clown, was later a beige-wearing computer professional with a crippling fear of roller-coasters. My closest friend, the quiet one who preferred bugs and beetles to The Beatles and rock n’ roll, is now a tattooed thrill-seeker base-jumping off mountains and out of airplanes. Suddenly, our weekends spent building pillow forts in my parents’ basement seem about as relevant as dial-up internet.

Then there are the arguments. The epic falling outs over who ate the last slice of pizza (looking at you, Robert) or that whole “borrowing my Kurt Cobain t-shirt and then mysteriously shrinking it in the washer” debacle. (“Never forgive, never forget”.) Suddenly, talking to your once-best bud feels like trying to have a philosophical discussion with a particularly stubborn pigeon (no offense Steven).

Now, some of you might be thinking, “But Kevin, what about the power of forgiveness? Of patching things up?” To which I say “bless your kind little hearts”. Have you ever tried to mend a ripped pair of jeans with duct tape? It looks desperate, don’t it? The same goes for fractured friendships. Sure, you can give or accept an apology (though let’s be honest, most apologies sound suspiciously like justifications these days), but the underlying resentment will always be there, like that rogue sequin still clinging to the bottom of your sneaker.

The worst part? Even if you manage to overcome your differences, the conversation will likely be as thrilling as watching paint dry. You’ll dredge up those tired old anecdotes (“Remember that time we…”), desperately trying to recapture a spark that has long since fizzled out. It’ll be like watching a particularly uninspired re-boot of a classic A Team episode.

Of course, there’s always the chance you’ll genuinely reconnect. Maybe you’ll discover a shared love of beige cardigans and sensible shoes? Maybe Robert finally fesses up to the pizza theft (justice!). But let’s be real, the odds are about as good as winning the lottery or being struck by lightning.

So, what’s the point? Here’s the thing: sometimes, letting go is the most mature option. Think of it like clearing out your wardrobe. You wouldn’t keep those neon green parachute pants from the 80s, would you? (Although, to be fair, they might be making a comeback – fashion is a fickle beast.)

Instead I suggest we focus on the good times. The laughter, the shared secrets, the time you accidentally set fire to Robert’s eyebrows while passing him a lit joint (oops). Cherish those memories, then move on. There’s a whole world of potential new friends out there, some of whom might even appreciate my questionable taste in music. Unless, of course, they try to borrow my latest almost new Nirvana t-shirt – then all bets are off.

 

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