Grapes. I’ve always loved them. In my youth, I only got them when they came into season, and my mother bought green grapes. No idea what variety they were. They were just grapes. We would eat them on our cereal, and I would sneak one or two out of the refrigerator as long as they lasted. Then when I got married and we had fruit salad on holidays, I discovered they came in other colors and flavors. That was a treat.

These days I buy plastic boxes of them with three varieties, green, red, and almost black. I pick the grapes off the stems, repackage them, and snack on them as long as they last. It’s hard to believe they might be good for me, but they’re fruit. So, I assume that’s the case. It’s certainly easy dealing with them. And I wonder why I never asked my wife to buy them for me when she shopped. I guess groceries were her business, and I just ate what she brought home. That changed a little later in life when the kids left, and we started grocery shopping together, but not much. It was her kitchen; I funded it.

It's different now, of course. It’s all my choice, and that feels strange. For the longest time, I bought the things she bought, but gradually I slipped away from that and now I simply cater to my tastes. And my tastes are pretty simple. I eat to live and like things that are easy to fix. I like fish and green salads and cheese and fruit. And I’m a lousy planner.  Food occurs to me when I get hungry, and I eat what I have. I must be doing okay, though. My last blood work got rave reviews, my weight is holding steady, and I’m still a size 36 waist. And no one has said, you look too thin. So, here’s to apples, grapes, and Havarti cheese.

John W. Wilson is the author of The Long Goodbye: A Caregiver's Tale