I was fifty-five-years-old before I could tolerate
coffee. For most of my life it just upset my stomach. I was a tea drinker,
mornings, anyway. By now I rather like coffee. Not too much, or too strong, but
coffee is now my morning companion. Times change.
Later on I even developed a taste for popcorn, which
had always been abhorrent to me on textural grounds. I couldn’t stand the
feeling of it on my teeth. Now I like some popcorn, too, of an evening,
watching some old noir B-movie on the wi-fi TV.
So I’m beginning to wonder if pickles are not the awful
things that I have always suspected them to be. I well remember, as a small child,
my paternal grandmother’s amazement that anyone would not love pickles. To her,
it was as if someone didn’t like ice cream. She was born and raised in New
York, but her parents were German immigrants, and the family spoke German at
home. Germans love their pickles. Upon discovering that I would not eat them,
she shook her head in a puzzlement that I can still picture.
What else is out there? What other delights await me? I
should devote more time to the inquiry. Time is running out, after all.
Maybe opera music. Who knows? It might be fun.
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