Raw Talent

Let me take a moment to comment on a genetic gift from my father's side. We Arons' are blessed (or, in certain situations, cursed) with highly acute senses of smell, I'm talking police dog olfactory systems, attuned to the barest sprinkling of aromatic particles in the atmosphere. The corollary is that I have one keen-ass set of taste buds and, as a result, have been detecting hidden flavors all over the Cochon kitchen: a savoriness in the apple pie crust (lard); a musty taste in the andouille sausage (file powder, made from sassafras leaves and used as a spice and thickening agent in gumbo); molasses in the fig sherbet (the fruit is cooked in Steen's cane syrup); a hint of blue cheese in the honey custard. This last flavor struck me as odd. I called Bill over to have a taste, but the moldy overtones were lost on his tongue. Suspecting that years of nicotine abuse may have compromised his sense of taste, I sought a third opinion and, sure enough, the creole cream cheese in the custard was spoiled. What a disappointment that my DNA codes for a talent so expert and yet so utterly unmarketable--that I may be doomed to stand in walk-in coolers sniffing honey chocolate cakes for spoilage while Michael Phelps' webbed feet and endless torso take him straight to the stars.