He told us that after a bad flu last spring, he had lost nearly all sense of taste and smell. Food tasted like wet paper, and he had said nothing, because he was ashamed. Dipping his fingers into every pot was his way of hunting for any flavor that might come back, even a faint one. The grin and the jokes were cover. “I say I’m full,” he whispered, “because nothing tastes like anything, and sitting at the table makes it obvious.”

My husband knelt beside the little chair, red-eyed, and said he should have asked instead of lecturing. I felt my anger drain away, replaced by a hot rush of guilt. I picked up a clean spoon, filled it from the pot, and held it out. He tasted it slowly, closed his eyes, and whispered, “Salt.” It was only faint, but his eyes filled, and I realized he was tasting something for the first time in months.

The next morning, my husband drove him to an ear, nose, and throat specialist, who explained that the flu had damaged his sense of smell, and training with strong scents might help it return over time. We started that week with ginger, lemon, garlic, and coffee beans, which he sniffed each morning at the table. I began adding sharper herbs to my cooking, and he wrote down which ones he could detect on an index card.

Four months later, he stood on our porch, lifted his head, and said, “Garlic.” It was the first thing he had smelled since spring. He still sits in the little high chair on Sunday afternoons, grinning, because he says it is the best seat in the kitchen. Now he waits for his clean spoon, and I always give him the first taste.