He had abandoned nostalgia though he admired it in others. Just like grandma used to make, the most successful ploy, conjured up the peasant pot through which anything became food. Food was something cooked long enough for his cucu’s toothless mouth.

Friends assumed he had a sophisticated palate because he ate everything. He allowed them to conflate need and taste.

Food was simple: undercooked, cooked, and overcooked. It was hot, warm, or cold. It was crunchy, mushy, or soupy. Carrots made it sweet. Tomatoes added acid. Spinach made it green. Turmeric made it yellow. Salt made it taste.

A simple philosophy.