acquired tastes (roast beef and mixed metaphors)

I was in St. Paul over Labor Day weekend, visiting Joanna and Michael. It was a very enjoyable break after the first week of classes. On Saturday night Michael and Joanna grilled steaks. Matt and Mark joined us, along with their girlfriends and Fitz. Dinner conversation was so entertaining - it's such a constant revelation to meet others who are also interested in the geeky, esoteric books, movies, and music that I love. We debated the merits of the Da Vinci Code and Jim Jarsmusch movies. Adrian, Mark's girlfriend, shocked everyone by telling a hilarious joke about Michael Jackson and caviar. I thought Fitz was going to choke on the t-bone he was gnawing on!

Over breakfast this morning, the conversation turned to acquired tastes with regards to food. I could think of two things that at one time repulsed me and now I actually enjoy: tomatoes and jam. But tonight, as I was putting together a pre-bedtime meal, a third came to mind: roast beef. You have to understand: growing up, I thought beef WAS the five food groups! It's safe to say my father loved beef in all its myriad forms, and brown was the predominant dinner palette. I, on the other hand, didn't see what all the fuss was about. Steak, especially. Burgers were delicious, but the rest of it - pot roasts and steak and the like - was dull and uninspiring. The gastronomic equivalent of a high school history textbook, if you will.

About a year ago, I noticed this floating island in the middle of the grocery store. It's oval, porcelain, inhabiited by one or two friendly people, and surrounded on all sides by fresh mozzerella and hummus and beef sticks, like a delicious moat! As strange as it sounds, I never really paid much attention to the deli counter before. It always escaped my grocery radar. But at some point recently, something changed, and I started to pay attention to the various ham, turkey, and beef behind the glass. And I gravitated to the ham, probably because pulled pork sandwiches with Georgia Mustard BBQ sauce are on my short list of what's served in heaven. But eventually I began to tire of the ham variations, and two weeks ago extended an olive branch to beef, my old dinnertime companion. I brought home half a pound of sliced roast beef, and my God, what a revelation. This was nothing like the steaks, pot roasts, and other brown meats I grew up with. I'm hard-pressed to explain exactly what the difference IS, but my tastebuds are once again in love with beef.

What is it that causes our taste to change? Time, of course, but that does not explain why certain things remain unchanged in our hearts, while others sway from side to side. Food is one example, but I'm even more interested in music, and why certain songs or musicians rise from indifference to fascination in my ever-changing musical tastes. To take but one example, many years ago I bought a copy of After the Gold Rush by Neil Young and was promptly unimpressed. It lay in the dustbin of my collection for many years until one day I pulled it out again, and out of mere curiosity or boredom, I gave it another spin. My reaction was visceral - a genuine Bill and Ted "whoa"! It was as if I heard it for the first time. For reasons I can't adequately explain, suddenly the record revealed a spartan grace and beauty that I didn't hear the first time. Clearly, the music didn't change, so what was it that altered in me to realign my perspective? And why doesn't this happen with other music? I'm convinced, for example, that I will never appreciate The Grateful Dead or 99% of folk music. Perhaps this is just my prejudice, but I have sat down with an open heart and really not liked people like David Wilcox, truly and without any malice. I suppose it's all a part of the mystery of life, and what keeps things interesting.

My theory: seems like there's, oh, 25% of us that never changes from the moment we're conceived to the day we die. Let's call that our soul. And then there's the other 75% which is open to influence from everything around us - our friends, the radio, what-have-you. I call that the soul-frosting. The frosting is open to influence, but the cake (i.e., the soul) never changes. Ok, so it's not a perfect metaphor. But you get the idea. David Hume, stick that in your pipe and smoke it!