We are what we eat

Seeing a two-year-old in our neighborhood singing about honey and hearing from his parents that he loved all things honey brought back a memory of myself loving all things sticky and sweet, including nectars (even sucking the nectar from the plucked flower stems of petunias and nasturtiums) and my personal favorite sorghum (even the biting Sulphur taste).

Here, before me, was the sweetest child—had all that honey sweetened his disposition?

My mother loved bread, as does my daughter. My mother had an inner warmth with a crusty outside, just like her favorite French loaf of bread; while my daughter is a tender, kind soul who takes her bread warm and soft sans crust.

When my nephew was a toddler, he loved to drink half-and-half from the tiny foiled-sealed cups served with coffee and eat the single butter slices served at restaurants. It foretold his future richness of intellect and taste.

Another nephew loved oranges so much that he carried one in his tiny hand, ready to eat, when the time was right. Now he is a formidable musician, often with his instrument, a guitar, in hand.

I notice that my favorite foods have changed over the years and their characteristics have shifted from sweet and tart to savory and briny, which makes perfect sense to me.