Let’s assume for a moment that taste buds developed on human tongues, not for the purpose of expensive boutique food stores being able to charge fifteen dollars an ounce for Mapuche chili powder but, rather, to entice people to try a variety of foods. Thus, food tourism, Instagram, and literally thousands of new cookbooks being published, year after year, has seemingly not produced an overload of interest in all things food. Rather, we can’t seem to get enough of the world of Cuisine. The names of restaurants are lyrical and interesting. Who wouldn’t want to try “fud” (minimalist and hip) “Wolf Bar” (aimed at carnivores) “Mane St.” (for the horsey set) or Kidz Only (who pays the bill?) TV food shows are at the top of many ‘favorites’ lists and Amazon lights up whenever a new ingredient pops up in a recipe. It’s easy to be a foodie, or even a culinary genius, with practice and the “Buy with one click” button on our favorite online store.

So what’s the problem? None that I can see or taste unless I start to feel guilty using a vanilla bean that was hand-picked by a farmer in Madagascar, who won’t see but a fraction of the cost I pay. Or, with cows in abundance in the US, do we really need to import beef from Japan (delicious, that Wagyu!) that has to cross the Pacific, probably alive, then be killed here (TMI?) so as to be fresh when when it lands on our plates?

The much touted and/or maligned kale; varieties which include “dinosaur,” “walking stick” and “Russian,” all respond well to being massaged prior to eating. We read, “Lovingly rub the leaves with olive oil before adding to recipe” when prepping a meal, and it doesn’t strike us as unnecessary or crazy. We do it because the queens and kings of chefdom say to do it. When you post that Instagram of your “Native Grain with Pickled Mango and Lacinato (dino) Kale Salad” people expect that it has been massaged.

What to do then with finding out that Julia Child was a fan of the Big Mac and that when chefs get off work and gather in the early hours of the morning they might cook up sweet potato fries covered with nacho cheese, chili and crumbled Cheetos; and, oh yeah, a shot of single-malt scotch or a small-batch gin martini. The taste buds do not seem to mind.

Kim Kohler writes on the uncertainties of living in a liberal hot spot where everybody has an opinion, every opinion counts and nobody uses turn signals.

We saw “Cell” recently – a scary and grim movie written by Stephen King. The protagonist was making his way through a Logan Airport terminal. Everyone was on their cell phones, which is normal these days. Suddenly everyone who had a cell phone up to their ear started foaming at the mouth, banging their heads against the wall, and attacking with murderous intent anyone within reach. After observing this connection, our protagonist thought twice about calling his ex-wife to arrange visitation with his son. He and the few survivors who weren’t rabid decided not to use their cell phones for anything.

This movie got me to wondering. How would younger generations fare without a cell phone attached to their heads?

We baby boomers often grew up with just one phone in the house. Ours was a rotary wall phone with a long cord, so one could walk away and have a private conversation. I know, a private conversation. How quaint.

I love my phone and the things it can do, but cells have changed our behavior in many ways, sometimes enslaving us.

1. Shoppers in grocery stores cannot make up their minds which cereal to buy. Calls must be made to discuss the many options.
2. Dates and get-togethers with friends cannot be endured without either a phone call or attempts to look at tiny pictures on a phone.
3. Family meals, a thing of the past, do not include conversation, or lessons for children. Instead, everyone’s head is down, looking at their individual phones.
4. Cell phone conversationalists walking down the street take no notice of traffic, a nice day, the scenery, or other walkers.
5. Paying attention to the road while driving is, apparently, optional these days. Stupid phone calls questioning the driver as to what cereal to buy and other mundane ruminations must be answered at great peril to other drivers.
6. Workers no longer fear the boss, but spend an inordinate amount of time texting, calling, and answering instead of working.
7. Ex-spouses no longer stay in the shadows but call repeatedly and must be answered immediately so that the drama can be played out for everyone’s entertainment.
8. Lunch dates and other arrangements are always flexible because the cell phone addicts can always call with a BS story about why they are late.

Is Stephen King saying we’re turning into monsters?

Lavinia M. Hughes lives in East Falmouth, MA and is keeping a close watch on her cell phone.

Everyone knows by now that retirement and old age are going to be defined differently by the baby boomer generation, and that’s okay. We were different from the start so it makes sense that we’re going to be different when it comes to the end of life experience.

But here’s one curve you may not have seen coming. Cemeteries are running out of plots and the ones they do have are costing an arm and a leg…along with a head and a torso. Land shortages for urban cemeteries are the norm now and they refer to it as a “space crunch.” Finding 50 acres of land to build a new cemetery when you’re up against the NIMBY effect (not in my back yard) has contributed to the maxed out capacity crisis.

A single burial plot in an urban cemetery can run anywhere from 6 to 8 thousand dollars. That’s a big reason why many more people are opting for cremation. While boomers may find that they can just squeeze in (sorry for that mental picture), millennials are out of luck once again. They will blame boomers for that too, but we’ll be dead so there’s that.

Green or natural burials are growing in popularity as a direct consequence of the space shortage. The body is buried without embalming or a coffin, allowing it to decompose naturally, so the land ends up being a conservation ground. Sounds oddly efficient but it still requires enough space to accommodate millions of boomers. Plus there’s the whole humans as fertilizer aspect to it that can be a downer (the death itself being the ultimate downer).

Do you think many of the 78 million or so boomers have given much thought to this looming crisis? I think not. Sure, many have secured a plot or prescribed cremation in their wills, but I’m betting that the vast majority are not worrying about it. We’re a fairly optimistic bunch not often known for advance planning. So it looks like many boomers are going to be sticker shocked or scrambling to come up with alternate disposal plans for themselves and their loved ones. You might consider a Grateful Dead song at the funeral. And We Bid You Goodnight would work but consider planning now for that end.

Jay Harrison is a graphic designer and writer whose work can be seen at DesignConcept. His mystery novel, Head Above Water, is available on Amazon and Kindle. You can also visit his author page here.

On Monday I made my best effort at pretending to be done with this current version of a cold or flu or whatever it is that for the last week has made me feel like throwing in the towel. “I am better,” I kept telling myself, certainly well enough to shower and dress and sit bravely at the kitchen counter while Eloise made dinner.

There I sit, making believe I’m over it, talking about the weather and whether or not I need to cancel some appointments. “Oh, I’m fine now,” was my position. Then in an instant there came a series of realizations that no, maybe things really aren’t exactly right in my world. It’s as though a piercing bright light comes on, then switches off, then flashes to signal an emergency state as I comprehended in rapid succession that I feel a little woozy and am having a struggle to hold up my head, then wait a minute here, I’m keeling over, and oopsies, dark fear, now it’s clear that I have lost control of the situation, yep, sure enough, here I go, I’m on my way down to the floor.

I remember making an attempt to tuck and roll the way they explained in the AARP Magazine, but by now the room was bucking and spinning in such a way that it was all I could do to lie there spread-eagled and hang on to the tiles.

The last time this happened to me was in Amsterdam where jet lag and too much of too many good things brought me to my knees. I knew I was finished, unable to communicate except to mumble about calling an ambulance. On that occasion all I needed was a sugar cube and a big glass of Coca-Cola to correct the blood sugar levels and revive me.

What was happening on Monday was no doubt the same thing all the other flu cases are reporting this season. Sweat kept coming and then chills and the certain knowledge that I was going to need to crawl to get to the bathroom. Standing was out of the question. If there is an happy ending, it would be that I made it to the toilet without incident. I didn’t sleep much and the next day there was a dull ache all over that now and then focused on a specific body part. Pain in the ass is not just a figure of speech.

Anne Animas lives, writes and hides out in Southern Colorado.

I’ve seen movies that show families eating dinner together, but it wasn’t like that at our house, a Southern California bungalow tucked into a working-class neighborhood out by the tomato cannery.

Mom went to bed as soon as she got home from work. My older sister and I cooked dinner and ate together at the Formica dinette dominating our tiny kitchen. We served a plate to Dad, who ate on a TV tray in the living room.

My father was barely domesticated, but somewhere he learned to make the best tacos on the planet. On taco night, everything was different. Out came a special tablecloth, the soft white cotton stained and torn with a fading vintage pattern of red and blue fruit.

Mom emerged from the bedroom and shopped the list:

1. Corn tortillas
2. Ground beef
3. Cheddar cheese
4. Iceberg lettuce, tomato, onion
5. Hot sauce

While Mom made salad and my sister grated cheese, I spread the shabby cloth as if decorating for a fiesta. I’d brown the meat, adding salt, pepper and generous sprinkles of my secret ingredient, celery salt.

Mom poured 1/8 inch of vegetable oil into a cast iron pan and set the flame to medium. She’d run her hand over the pan until the oil felt hot. Then she’d holler for Dad.

“The grease is ready!”

Dad took a flat tortilla and held it in his palm, adding a spoonful of browned meat onto one half of the tortilla. He would carefully lay the meat side of the tortilla in the oil, allowing the tortilla to soften at the crease so he could fold it on top of itself. After the first side was golden, he’d flip it over and lightly brown the other side.

When the tacos were done, he held them with tongs over the pan to drain the extra oil before laying them side-by-side on a sheet pan lined with paper towels. Cooked properly, the body of the tortilla gets crisp and lacy, while the part near the fold stays moist and supple.

My father taught me to dress them so the cheese melts against the warm meat, then hot sauce, then salad. A shake of salt. Mom declared them, “A la supreme.” We’d all laugh, as we ate tacos together, just like in the movies.

I still make tacos the way Dad did. It’s like time travel. I drop the meat in the pan, and it begins to sizzle. I break it apart with a metal spatula. Flip and chop. And just like that, it’s taco night, and everything is different.

Donna Pekar is an aging badass (for real) who lives in California and writes Retirement Confidential.

Years ago I swore I would never be caught going to an early bird dinner. The whole idea of going to eat early to save a buck just nauseated me, as in made me lose my appetite. Now I guess I don’t have to worry, because it would appear that the Early Bird Special is going extinct.

Go to the heart of the retiree republic in South Florida and you’ll see that restaurants are near empty around 4 pm. Early bird specials are for old people. Boomers don’t want to be thought of as “old” so it’s goodbye early bird special.

Back in 2009 it looked like the early bird dinner was making a comeback but it was just a brief flicker of a revival. Restaurants were doing anything to fill seats in non-peak times and the early bird special targeted anyone pinching pennies, not just the grey heads.

Restaurant owners can see that baby boomers are not taking the bait (sorry, the whole worm thing can do that to you), but they have not given up on the concept. New euphemisms have sprung up for it however. Sunset dinner and twilight dinner are now more common terms for dinner at 4-5 pm. The name change has not lured boomers back to the table. Millennials who are scraping by as contract employees without benefits are the more likely customers for bargain meals these days.

The chain restaurants have found another way to get boomers into the seats – namely discounts. There are all sorts of deals for 2-person dining as well as reduced portion specials. Applebee’s gives the 60+ crowd 10-15% off, Carrabba’s gives 10% off to AARP members, so does Chart House, Dairy Queen, Subway and Friendly’s. Dunkin’ Donuts will give AARP members a free donut with the purchase of a large beverage.

The extinction of the early bird special is just one more sign that baby boomer retirement is nothing like mom and dad’s version of the golden years. Boomers don’t want to identify as “retired” so the last thing they want is people gawking at them eating dinner at 4pm. They are out windsurfing or roller-blading and they will eat at a civilized 6:30 pm, thank you very much. Of course, they may still be in bed by 8:30 so at least that sign of being a senior hasn’t changed.

Jay Harrison is a graphic designer and writer whose work can be seen at DesignConcept. His mystery novel, Head Above Water, is available on Amazon and Kindle. You can also visit his author page here.