Last night I made the perfect autumn meal, hopefully the first of many. I roasted turkey with sage and shallots, baked apples with cinnamon, steamed some green beans, and served them with a roasted chestnut and chicken-apple sausage dressing. With the chestnuts and turkey roasting and the apples baking, my house smelled like some place in a Beatrix Potter story all afternoon. Everyone cleaned his plate. Everyone thanked me for the meal. Everyone, that is, except for Simeon. He ate the apples, but that was all.
"Simeon," I said, "You are going to be hungry later."
"Why couldn't we have pasta?" he asked poking at his turkey with his fork.
"You need to learn to eat all the healthy foods Mama makes for you so you can grow healthy and strong," I said.
"I wish I didn't have taste," he replied; meaning that he could manage the meal if only he didn't have to experience its flavors.
"And I wish you did," I said; meaning his likes and dislikes could use a little, shall we say, refinement?