How taste determines the fate of humans and animals

Sometimes I pause for a moment to critically reflect on myself and suddenly a new chapter springs from my fluid brain that fits well into my series of personal stories that will (fortunately) never shock the world, but hopefully brighten it up a bit. If the reader's mind is left confused or even bewildered after taking in the words, not understanding what it has just had to process, then do not blame this on the first signs of your own mental decline, but rather on that of the author, who was unable to control the flood of words and direct them into somewhat clear or logical channels.

Just as a strobe light is not the ideal lighting for autistic people (or was it?), so such stories can have a temporarily disruptive effect on the mental functioning of the unsuspecting consumer. Compare it to a horror film: we all know it is just a beam of light through a piece of cellulose, but those projected images sometimes cause severe long-term trauma. I suffered from insomnia for years after a one-time viewing of The Exorcist, especially of Linda Blair vomiting green and meters away.

So read this piece best with a friend or strong partner within reach to support each other if the unlikely doomsday scenario unexpectedly does occur. Because it will feel like sitting in your underwear on a particularly rickety wooden roller coaster, doing a few lightning-fast laps on the strongly tilted Ferris wheel with a few loose bolts, just out of reach. So be warned and still be on your guard. And feel free to skip the snack of reading material if you do not agree with the above and only want to consume sound, neatly organized reading material in short, clear sentences.

In this specific case, it concerns exclusively an analysis, albeit rather incomplete and for the reading humanity also of little relevance, of one of the most important questions, regularly asked of himself by the more or less civilized man and in which he can essentially distinguish himself from the lower forms of life: do I like it or do I not like it? Or, to put it differently: Am I an easy eater or rather a difficult one?

In nature, but also among the less privileged (say chronically malnourished) no one will ask themselves that question quickly. Everything that is even remotely edible is gratefully devoured because one cannot afford the luxury of waiting for a morsel that is more to one's taste. I have never seen a predator turn up its nose at any part of a felled or found prey in a documentary. No matter how unpalatable or half rotten the victim is, it is torn apart with loud smacking and licked in large pieces. The hyenas even devour the various bones, hooves and horns with the help of their sharp teeth and strong bite. The concept 'with skin and hair' is borrowed from these animalistic carnivorous practices and later adopted by humans in a more figurative sense, although I sometimes look with amazement at the efficiency with which my wife (and her compatriots) can devour a chicken or pig. Not because of the size of the portions, which are perfect for a woman under 50 kilos. No, what components of the deceased poultry or slaughtered animals she consumes, sometimes shocks me. Although I have to admit that her open-minded approach to nutrition does more honor to the great and ultimate sacrifice of the deceased animal that had to give its unfinished life to fill our hungry stomachs.

The above question is more important to me now than ever because my family is composed of people who grew up with both Dutch cuisine in all its simplicity and Thai cuisine in all its complexity. Adaptability or inability to adapt can play a major role in the merging and appreciation of the different food cultures and ultimately the success of the relationship, although a relationship that breaks down on the difference in the functioning of the taste buds and the (lack of) appreciation for what has been tasted is already doomed to fail.

My brother is an easy eater. Ever since he had teeth, he has been eating white bread with (only milk) chocolate sprinkles for breakfast. And for lunch too. Dinner is almost always AGV, where the potatoes have to be peeled and boiled, the vegetables peas and carrots alternated with green beans from a can or jar and the meat is something without bones, preferably chicken or a ham steak. It could hardly be easier, because nothing else will fit. Also handy in the supermarket, he knows the route along his favorite shelves like the back of his hand and can be back in his car fully fed within five minutes. My mother always called him a picky eater for that very reason and because mothers are usually right, we will adopt her definition here for the sake of clarity and that is how my brother has now become a picky eater. Not that it will be interesting for the reader, but as the years go by he has become somewhat more food tolerant.

Around the age of 40, the first shrimp found its way to his mouth (peeled and boiled of course) and after the arrival of his Thai wife, also some other Asian dishes such as nasi à la Thai and his favourite: Ramen, although not really Thai in origin, but already a bit further towards the Far East. Breakfast and lunch remained largely unchanged, but in terms of composition no longer carved in stone. A piece of cooked ham or smoked meat on that white bread is still okay, but literally never cheese, pate, cervelat, jam, peanut butter, syrup, a fried egg, muesli with yoghurt or whatever else could have been on the breakfast plate. At the (breakfast) buffet he is a welcome guest, who single-handedly compensates the purchasing budget for two or three gluttons.

He will certainly never have a warm breakfast like we all know from Thailand, where I too often have to eat fried rice with an omelette early in the morning, for lack of bread. With a dash of fish sauce over it (the one with the slices of pepper in it). Nasi to start the day doesn't bother me at all, on the contrary, although your stomach is already hanging there in that early morning.

However, when my brother is 60 years old, he would still preferably take white bread with chocolate sprinkles to a desert island, in addition to his guitar. Hoping that the latter does not melt in the bright sun. A stray vitamin or mineral may have been in there here and there, but he has never heard of 'ADH'. It also depends on who makes that recommendation, of course. However, he has not yet developed scurvy from it and his teeth, although somewhat irregularly positioned, have so far all remained standing, while I have lost one for a while now and a second one is about to tip over. And that is allowed because that second set has lasted in my mouth for about 60 years with only average good care, but fairly intensive daily use in which sugars also frequently came into play.

We have both lost our hair, even the unwanted hair, except in places where you would rather not have it. At least, mine, I have not seen my brother naked since childhood and I would not want to do that anymore. We do come from a fairly modern family, but the urge to admire each other's hairy buttocks does not occur to me and I suspect it does not occur to my brother either. We all do not become more beautiful with age, with a few exceptions, but often the plastic surgeon was to blame. I used to have a Farang mother-in-law who was not exactly the epitome of feminine beauty. She was a great person, but as a young man I sometimes wondered how my father-in-law had managed to have seven children. Until I saw a wedding photo from forty years ago and she looked exactly the same then. Only a bit younger. Fortunately, her daughter looked a bit nicer, although despite that quality, our marriage lasted just under ten years. And that was not her fault.

But most people do deteriorate somewhat in terms of dazzling as they get older. It's all very natural, so there's absolutely nothing wrong with it. It's just the way it is. Incidentally, the bald crowns of my brother and me are not the result of a one-sided diet, but hereditary thanks to my father, who already showed quite dramatic receding hairlines at the age of 18 and at 24 only had a wreath at his wedding like Lambiek from Suske and Wiske. A little later, not even that anymore. He couldn't help it himself and simply unintentionally passed on the worthless baldness genes to his three boys. As a young person, I personally experienced it up close as the eldest son who often sat on his father's broad shoulders for joy rides in the woods and park. At least, I thought they were broad and impressive at the time, but mine are broader now. It was just a matter of perspective and perception, I think in retrospect. His bald head, then in full view before me and extra shiny from summer sweat and skin oil, would come frighteningly close to my face and then I could already see the storm brewing for my own future, as a child still averse to any genetics.

He never appreciated the fact that I regularly pooped my cloth diaper on his neck during such a long walk (yes, also with children's diarrhea) and he used it against me for years at birthday parties and other family gatherings. Even when I was already dating someone, although that lasted until well into my teens, early twenties. He called it a lousy favor. Then I stopped doing that, too humiliating and I also became too heavy for him, because his shoulders were, as I said, broader in my eyes than they actually were. Although he was quite a sturdy guy. All his brothers, just like mine now, as well as a couple of my aunts on my father's side were also plagued by this bad habit (the hair loss, not the neck pooping), which must have been hell for the latter in particular because wigs and toupees for women were rather scarce and unaffordable at the time, especially in poor miner families. Their daughters, my nieces on my father's side, are also rather disadvantaged in terms of the density of their hair and I sympathize with them, although the topic is not often broached at family parties so as not to spoil the atmosphere.

My brother's rather childish menu has earned him some ridicule now and then, but that never bothered him in the past and it doesn't bother him now either. Apparently he wasn't guilty of my neck pooping either, that was an exclusive activity of me, the eldest brother. Later I never suffered from such inappropriate bowel movements again; I suspect it was the combination of youthful enthusiasm and the wrong diet for a forest walk. The deterioration of his hairline, now far behind the tonsure, bothered my brother quite seriously. So don't make jokes about it, no matter how well-intentioned they are. Don't think that his lousy diet has made him a wimp. He holds his own, can work very hard, weighs about 100 kg himself and rides a heavy Harley (weighing 350 kg) for fun, without an emblem on his jacket. I won't imitate him in spite of my ham and cheese on brown bread. But enough about my brother. It's a bit far-fetched and really deserves its own section here rather than a mention in the margins of my eating habits.

I consider myself a rather easy eater, but my wife doesn't think so. I do find her to be rather easy-going in her approach to food, although she is not crazy about all Western, but certainly not all Thai dishes either.

Especially not when the latter are prepared by Indian (as in India) looking chefs who often populate the foreign Thai kitchens. They are in themselves an enterprising people who delight the outside world in large numbers with their presence and diligence, but they generally find that they do not know much about Thai cuisine. They would do better to limit themselves to their own national food such as the delicious curries, vegetarian or not. In this way they apparently simply do not come close to the authentic taste of Thai food. Often it is cooked too much to the taste of the local, for example European consumer. Sometimes not all the necessary original ingredients are readily available or they are too expensive here in the West to be used generously in an Asian fast food dish. The name is easy to imitate, but the taste is a different story. It all tastes quite good in my opinion, but we are talking about hers now and she is the authority. My enjoying looks are neutralized by her disapproving ones and then it tastes less good to me, but still good enough for a compliment. The recipe has been rewritten especially for my taste buds. For fear that she is reading over my shoulder, I would like to mention that I am of course terribly generalizing and also fantasizing above, because sometimes a gem floats in the ball pit of food supply.

When those 'fake' Thai restaurants in the Netherlands or neighbouring Germany venture into her favourite food, the papaya salad, things really go wrong. Because somtam can either be prepared or not and it is not just a matter of mixing some solid ingredients and then just hitting them with a wooden stick. They can achieve the typical sound but not the taste. But also the right origin and housing of the 'chef' does not automatically mean a 5 star review. Usually the somtam sellers in and around Udon Thani also miss the mark. Regardless of the price range from which the dish originates. Fantastically tasty can easily cost 40 baht and poorly prepared can nevertheless be exorbitantly expensive, although somtam is not the typical dish for haute cuisine. In fact, such a mortar operator is not even a cook, because everything happens without heat (after all, COOK is derived from COOKING) except that of the sun, which mercilessly shines down on the crabs floating in the grey liquid and deformed before they are beaten to pieces with the usually very fresh papaya strips and noodles. But perhaps one can also call oneself a cook without a gas stove or ceramic hob. After all, a fishmonger does not wade through the mud in his wooden clogs every day, but nevertheless calls himself a farmer. And even if the somtam ladies and gentlemen stand there with such expert looks, pounding and throwing officially approved ingredients into their ceramic mortars to their heart's content, 9 times out of 10, according to my wife, the right flavour does not quite or not at all end up in the plastic bag with the red elastic band. The apparently perfect execution of her mother (and her own too) is the yardstick against which all other versions are strictly measured and therefore usually lose out one by one.

The spicy stuff is either just edible or just not edible and in the latter case often disappears straight into the bin with the plastic bag around it, making the premature death of the baby crabs even more pointless and polluting the environment considerably, although people in Thailand are not as concerned about that as I am at home. The disappointment is great again with such a 'just edible' case, especially when everyone wants to go wild and feast with their bare fingers when they get home, but the required quality has not been achieved. Although somtam is more likely to be brought to the mouth with a spoon, probably because of the rather high moisture and pepper content and also because the smell and taste of the fish sauce would otherwise stick to your fingers for the rest of your holiday. But I can't speak about that, because I don't want to burn my fingers and especially my mouth on it. I am not an easy eater. Sometimes it is a bull's eye, a rare miracle, that commercial somtam that is perfectly prepared. That becomes an address to remember. Unfortunately, not all chefs are always consistent and one day they throw a bit more of one thing and the next day a bit more of another into their mortar. Perhaps also depending on the ingredients available that day. The mood of the man or woman in question can also play a major role in the preparation, which sometimes means that your somtam is simply thrown with the cap. And of course, your favorite 'chef' can also just have a day off and his or her replacement doesn't quite hit the right note.

And so at home, in addition to the confusion, long faces can be seen around the somtam dish and the stuff is eaten with long teeth and with the help of a small glass of beer diluted with an overdose of ice cubes, but quickly washed down. The sticky rice is usually done well, but I could even do that, although I have never tried it, except with regular basmati rice, but that does not count.

I watch from the sidelines, shaking my head like a cultural barbarian. I am also not one for grabbing everything from the same bowls, even though everyone uses their right hand for that and has also cleaned it before the start of the festive meal. Left-handed people are not welcome guests at such occasions. They often have their own dish on their lap, just like me, and something in my look prevents others from picking a shrimp or strip of pork from my plate. Except for my dear wife of course, I even voluntarily and (seemingly) generously give her my last piece of meat in the hope that she will refuse it, but of course I don't say that for the sake of conviviality. And even if she does say yes to my offer, I don't find that very problematic, by the end of my portion I am usually already stuffed. As a young senior citizen, you simply can't eat as much as you used to, although I have never been a glutton, although you can't tell from my figure. Heavy bones and thickening of the air are the probable causes of this.

Nonsense of course, but it sounds plausible and others also use it as an excuse to gorge themselves without any shame.

Together with many readers I often wonder whether all those peppers in the somtam are not particularly harmful to the internal organs of the gourmands. I once took a single bite of it myself and had to walk around for days with ice-cold water in my mouth to avoid dying from the burns, which you could smell as a passer-by. Never again for me. But a girl's stomach also gets a terrible blow every day after swallowing so many peppers, only diluted with those papaya strings and the crab corpses that were beaten to death the day before yesterday. I don't think of it myself, she too often shrinks from the pain in her abdomen like a garden snail on which someone sadistically sprinkles some salt. The mouth can just about handle that intense burn, but the intermediate route as well as the excretion point have to suffer mercilessly. I also understand that papaya salad is on page one of every travel guide and falls into the category of protected UNESCO world heritage, but the stomach walls need protection just as much and simply do not get it. But I may see it all too extreme, as a picky eater. No, give me honest Dutch food with an Indian touch, that suits me better, sometimes a bit heavy on the stomach, but it does spare my stomach wall.

My father, who unfortunately passed away a while ago, was a kind of hobby cook. My mother had been separated from him for quite a few years before his death, but still claims that he could cook well. He must have made quite an impression on her with that. I'm not so sure about those great cooking skills. In the first place, he only cooked for parties. That was a few times a year. And not 365 times as was expected of housewives at the time. My mother had even studied for that at home economics school, while my father was a graduate miner. So that's where the shoe pinches. In my memory, his repertoire was limited to reifkoeken, half chickens from the oven and large pans with mussels. Depending on the type of party and the invited guests. The reifkoeken were composed of fresh potatoes and onions that were run through a hand-operated mill as wet strings in a bowl and then turned into a very tasty treat in a pan with glowing fat. Unbeatable with apple sauce. There were never enough to satisfy everyone, however, and external eaters were given priority in the distribution over the children's own little ones with their large empty and loudly growling stomachs. I can be brief about the half-cockerels: so much pepper on them that they would have been instantly fatal for those children's stomachs. If you were to rinse a piece of it with lukewarm water for half an hour, you might have been able to keep it down as a child, but that was a theory that was never put into practice. The mussels, cooked with leek and celery, were tastier, but I put a stop to that myself as a child by dissecting them on my plate instead of devouring them with my eyes closed.

I myself have become a reasonable AGV cook in the Netherlands. Self-taught. I then prepare, mainly in the oven because of the lower risk of failure, a delicious meal for my blended family. I eat my own fingers, so to speak, and lick them clean afterwards, figuratively speaking. To spoil my dinner companions a little extra, I then make (in advance) four festive-looking plates that only need to be microwaved later; our timing for a communal sitting down is and remains a point of attention, even though sociologists still shout so loudly that you grow old from eating together. It is not uncommon for me to have to put such an identical plate under my own nose four times in the course of that week because the other (non) co-eaters drop out for various (often fictitious) reasons and I think it is a shame to deposit my culinary creations in the organic waste bin to feed the flies and their larvae.

Fortunately, I can sometimes leave a plate with my very old, but still often hungry mother and then I only eat the exact same dish three times. It's just that it's so tasty, otherwise the fly larvae would have a party in their bin more often. In the meantime, I'm no longer an enthusiastic amateur chef and just eat whatever is on the table or drop in on my friend around the corner who runs an international restaurant and is happy to have me as a boarder for a small fee for one day a week. I admit, if I were a somewhat easier eater, I could also join the ladies at home more often, because my aforementioned wife is an excellent cook and even her daughter makes brave nutritious attempts, although she still has a lot to learn, thanks to thuisbezorgd.nl and colleagues. Unfortunately, I'm a bit stubborn by nature and find it difficult to get enthusiastic about dishes in which, for example, lots of chicken feet float around, with or without neatly clipped toenails beforehand, not only because of the potential pepper poisoning. Or curries that contain chicken with bone in them so that you have to fight through the delicious taste by spitting out bones. Or fish with bones, actually fish in general, snails, dressed shrimps, intestines, severed heads of ruminants or omnivores, the list keeps getting longer. I am more like my brother than I thought, maybe not on the outside, but certainly in terms of food intolerance.

Omnivores will now partly rightly shout that I will miss out on many delicious delicacies in life because of my short-sighted attitude. But that does not bother me that much. There are enough delicacies left to make my existence one big party in the culinary field as well. So much so that my body is bulging and I should actually live on bread and water with a vitamin pill for a while. And of course one is never too old to learn, to discover new gems from the Thai kitchen, together with my lovely wife. But those who have reached the AOW age and are already eagerly looking forward to their AOW are often no longer so eager to learn and continue to wander around in their own tightly defined world, cherishing the age-old saying of farmer and unknown food. Because although I consider myself an easy eater, I probably am not really one.

Disclaimer: let the above sink in calmly and only then draw your conclusions. Do your part for or against it, but always at your own responsibility. Unfortunately I cannot take that over. Be nice or at least polite to the author, who has offered these valuable words, time and life lessons here completely selflessly and pro Deo as always for learning, but especially for (short-term) entertainment. And for those who thought it was too much of a good thing: tough luck.

About this blogger

khun Rick

Khun Rick dates from 1959 (currently 65 years old), grew up and still lives in South Limburg. After 40 years in the civil service, now almost 5 years with early retirement. Since 2001 he regularly visits Thailand as a tourist, but met his wife in the Netherlands and can often be found with her at his mother-in-law's in Udon Thani. Traveling together is his passion, eating (unfortunately) too and sports a necessity. And of course writing: used to be serious and now more light-hearted.

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