It began a few days ago. Carl sent me a message, asking if I wanted to get together sometime; I suggested Tuesday; he said, "Fine, come on over, I will make lunch." And my stomach knotted up.
This should not be taken as a comment on Carl's cooking; I am certain he is an excellent cook. But the idea of anyone making food for me makes me crazy, because it is so very much a waste of time. I am the child of a woman with a defective sense of smell and a man with a defective sense of variety (he had the same lunch menu five days a week, 45 weeks a year, for more than 40 years...). I really hate to be in situations where I have to fake gratitude, and having someone cook for me pretty much guarantees that that will happen.
It's not that I am not appreciative. But the nature of hand prepared food makes statements like, "Thank you for making the effort to feed me," ring hollow. I'm supposed to ENJOY the meal, and I just don't have the necessary sensory apparatus.
It took Dementia about a year to figure out that there really was NO point in trying to feed me...
Several of my internet friends are foodies, or cooks, or both, and it always amazes me a bit when they go on about recipes and restaurants. Intellectually, I know it is possible to be that excited about about food. But viscerally? I am baffled.