So, a couple of days ago, we were watching some basketball on the HDTV, and despite the fact that Carmelo was going to the rim virtually at will, I was kind of down and depressed. Trying to cheer me up, the companion of fifty-plus years says, "I'll tell you what. I'll get you anything you want — absolutely anything at all." Meaning, of course, anything edible, anything from the kitchen. We'll I'm not abstemious, I've always been a good eater, and I recognize that food has the power to confer good cheer, so I thought and thought, and finally I said, "I know what I'd like. How about a cup of decaf tea and two prunes." And then after a few seconds, I screamed, "Holy moley, what in the living heck has happened to me?" Is it now the case that the outer limit of my once-voracious imagination is a cup of decaf tea and two prunes? So embarrassing, so downright geezerish. What ever happened to ice cream sundaes with Fox's U-Bet and real whipped cream, to rich and gooey lasagna, to late-night salami sandwiches on deli rye (not that we would have any of those ingredients stocked in our bland healthful-but-tasteless-low-cholesterol refrigerator). It's all downhill, this septuagenarian eating. Ou sont les pepperoni pizzas dantan? Where are the bacon cheeseburgers of yesteryear?
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