Learning the lessons of aging—again!

Some of us seem destined to learn the same lessons over and over again. That was my story this week, as I learned the unvarnished truth that I no longer have the digestive system of a thirty-year-old. Saturday night, the family wanted take-out from a Mexican chain which shall remain anonymous but shouldn’t—some of us need to be forewarned. Not feeling like enchiladas or fajitas, I chose a taco salad, usually a safe and tasty alternative for me. Not this time!

The salad was huge, the price high, and the meat spicy. I ate about half and put the rest away for Sunday’s lunch. Whoa! The meat had gotten much spicier overnight. I remember once making salpicon with chilies in adobo sauce. Too spicy for me the first time around, but the spiciness intensified with each passing day. I gave it to friends with a stiffer palate than mine but even they found it too strong. I was afraid of salpicon after that for years, until I had a mild and good version in El Paso. This leftover taco salad tasted like it had been in adobo sauce for a long time, and the wilted greens were no longer appetizing.

For the next couple of days my stomach felt pretty uncertain, but it was just beginning to improve when Christian made a pot of chili for our supper. Ordinarily I am a devotee of his chili, though he keeps changing the recipe. Still, this would have been fine, if it weren’t adding insult to injury. By yesterday I felt really miserable. I managed to work all morning, on an empty stomach, but gave it up in the early afternoon and took a three-hour nap. Dinner was a solitary bowl of chicken noodle soup. I decided I might possibly survive.

Last night I went to bed at nine o’clock. Nothing unusual about that—I often lie down about nine, but I get up about ten and work for a couple of hours. Not last night. I explained to Sophie we were going to bed early, turned out all the lights, brushed my teeth, and went to bed for the night. The thing about going to sleep at nine is that by four you’ve had eight hours sleep, and you may find yourself, as I did, sitting on the edge of the bed, wondering what you’re doing there, awake, at four in the morning. Not a problem. I went back to sleep and slept until eight when Soph woke me.

Am I a new person today? Not quite but headed that way. I’m beginning to think the smoked salmon in my fridge sounds good, but I’ll wait another day and stick to bland foods today. Yesterday Jordan started me on the BRAT diet—banana, rice, applesauce, and toast—but I don’t like rice particularly and we have no applesauce. A diet of bananas and toast sounded pretty limited to me.

For now, lesson learned. But it’s not a new lesson. Rather, one I keep learning over and over. Maybe it’s timely, as Jordan and I have planned lots of good food, some of it rich, for Christmas Eve and Christmas—lobster pot pie, a corn pudding with so many calories her eyes rolled. I will eat judiciously—no more dietary indiscretions.

The other day I managed to make molasses cookies. Later this afternoon, I’ll try to get the bourbon balls and a cranberry cake made. All that Christmas baking to do!