Eating, interrupted

One day I was in Detroit, sampling wonderful foods like breaded pork loin smothered in heavy sausage gravy; crunchy Detroit pizza with tangy tomatoes and cheese; puffy flats of za’atar, drenched in oil and herbs; cocktails, bright and powerful with deep bouquets—loaded with concentrated botanicals. 

And then…I got covid…and my colorful world of food faded into black and white. 

Beloved pieces of smoky bacon became lifeless, brittle bars of salt. A steaming cup of Breakfast Blend had dulled into hot liquid, without any form. Even a Reese’s Cup, normally overwhelming with earthy, peanut richness and sweet, cocoa dimension, was reduced to a flat, waxy clump of “something—that I can sense has sugar—but no flavor.” 

Unmasked by smoke, my tastebuds found things like kielbasa and sausage to be unbearable—flavorless, elastic chews, melting into a stinging rush of sodium. 

The world was odorless. A campfire seemed inviting, but lacked the aroma of burning wood. How was my hygiene? I could hardly tell. I finished the morning routine without smelling soap, shampoo, deodorant, or toothpaste. 

And the whole while, a dense fog floated around my head—not quite a headache, but a dizzying feeling of heaviness and fatigue. 

I’m outside now, trying to operate in that fog, trying to absorb the world with the senses that remain; appreciating the most beautiful weather I’ve ever beheld in Michigan. Beautiful, because these are sunny, crisp autumn days, filled with a wonderful sound: the rushing cascade of autumn leaves. Beautiful, because I still have three senses and relatively good health, to soak them in.