“I can’t figure out what this is.”
“It’s … slimy.”
“I can’t cut anything.”
“Cut? I’ve just been using my hands.”
“Speaking of hands, Geraldine, keep yours to yourself.”
“GOD DAMN IT, JON. Lisa, I swear, I’m not touching him.”
I have heard that if you take one sense away, the others rush in to cover for it, like dutiful coworkers. When Molly Birnbaum lost her sense of smell after an accident, she talked about how she focused on the texture of food (as the subtleties of taste were now lost to her – she could only detect sweet, salty, bitter, and sour). When my own grandmother was near the end of her life, and nearly blind, I found she focused a great deal on touch, and she’d express alarm when she reached for me on the couch and felt a sockless foot or a too-chilled hand (“Sei scalza? Fa freddo!” You’re barefoot? It’s cold!).
And I’ve heard that eating in pure darkness makes you enjoy a meal more. You appreciate flavors and smells and texture in a way you couldn’t otherwise.
This is, in part, true. You also spill on yourself and accidentally end up eating zebra.