The Rib Chronicles: Finding Appetite, Memory, and Laughter

Mom has been cooking less lately.

Not because she’s lost her touch. Trust me — she hasn’t. Her seasoning still hits just right. Her timing is still better than any recipe card. But Dad’s taste buds? They’ve turned into little divas.

One day he wants something sweet. The next day he wants nothing but ribs. She made a beautiful dinner last week — plated nicely, seasoned with care, the kind of meal that says I love you without using words.

He took one look at it and said, “I ain’t eatin’ that.”

And just like that, the air left the room.

In my mind, I could hear Henrietta Leghorn — our outspoken chicken and resident philosopher — flapping her wings and announcing, “Well, that’s your right, sir. I’m not going to force you!”

Because here’s the thing caregiving teaches you, sometimes the hard way:

You can’t force appetite.

You can’t force memory.

You definitely can’t force ribs to be chicken.

That night, instead of pushing, Mom did something different.

The next evening she set the table. Lit a candle. Sat down and began eating her dinner like it was the best meal she’d ever tasted. Slow bites. Soft smile. No commentary.

Then she looked at him and said gently, “Remember when we used to eat together? Dinner by candlelight? You always went the extra mile. Flowers on the table. Chocolate strawberries.”

She didn’t say, Why won’t you eat?

She said, Remember who we are?

He watched her for a minute. Just watched.

Then he sighed and pulled up a chair.

No speech. No dramatic realization. He just took a bite.

And sometimes, that’s the victory.

Because dementia changes how the brain experiences food. Taste can dull. Smell can fade. Motivation can slip quietly out the back door. A plate that once felt inviting can suddenly feel confusing or overwhelming.

But memory — especially emotional memory — often lingers in deeper places.

Certain foods aren’t just food.

They’re summer Saturdays.

They’re laughter around a grill.

They’re grease on your fingers and someone handing you a napkin.

By Saturday, when my husband pulled into the driveway to pick him up, Dad called out, “Son-in-law, I’ve been waiting for this day all week — I brought my appetite!”

And he wasn’t kidding.

He ate those ribs like a man who had rediscovered something sacred. Sauce on his hands. Focused. Present. Fully committed to the moment.

Mom admitted later that he’d been picking at meals all week, barely finishing anything. She wasn’t sure how much he’d eat.

But when those ribs showed up?

It was like his appetite came home.

When Mom didn’t join us, he smirked and said, “Her loss, my gain!”

There it was again — that spark.

Before heading home, he carefully wrapped a few ribs in foil.

“I’ll give your mom one rib in case she gets hungry,” he said. “But the rest are mine.”

Then he looked at my husband and grinned. “Same time next week?”

And honestly? That felt like hope.

He brought his famous rocket juice — dragon fruit blended like it’s powering a spaceship. We slipped a little water into the mix, and he drank half. Better than nothing. In caregiving, sometimes half is a triumph.

Behind the laughter, there’s a quieter truth.

Dementia shifts things in the brain. The part that motivates you to eat may not fire the way it used to. Flavors can taste “off.” Smells don’t always register. Hunger doesn’t always translate into desire.

But comfort?

Comfort can still land.

Food tied to memory, to joy, to belonging — that can cut through the fog in ways logic can’t.

And here’s what I keep coming back to.

I think Mom needed that candlelight moment as much as he did.

In the middle of the frustration — the uneaten plates, the “I ain’t eatin’ that,” the guessing games — she found her footing again.

She remembered that this isn’t just about calories.

It’s about connection.

Sometimes when tempers flare or patience thins, the question isn’t, Why won’t you eat?

Maybe it’s, What are you missing?

What memory isn’t being triggered?

What feeling isn’t being reached?

How can I meet you where you are — not where I wish you were?

That’s the daily recalibration of caregiving.

Equal parts grace and grit.

It’s exhausting and mind-boggling and tender all at once.

So Mom, when he calls my husband asking for ribs, maybe that’s your cue to rest. You’ve done your part. You lit the candle. You held the memory open. You made space for him to come back to the table in his own way.

The grill can take it from here.

The ribs will sizzle.

The stories will surface.

The appetite will find its way home when it can.

And love — as it always does — will pull up a chair.