de Gustibus”

"De Gustibus" by Charles Battell Loomis is a whimsical exploration of personal taste and preferences, blending humor with philosophy. Through a series of engaging essays and reflections, Loomis delves into the complexities of what we find enjoyable, ranging from food to art, and the subjective nature of these choices. The title, based on the Latin phrase "de gustibus non est disputandum," suggests that tastes are inherently individual, inviting readers to embrace the diversity of opinions and experiences that shape our appreciation of life. With its lighthearted prose and insightful observations, the book challenges readers to reflect on their own tastes while celebrating the richness of human diversity.

• Short story

								
It was on one of the cannibal islands, and a family of cannibals
were discussing the pleasures of the table on their front piazza
while they waited for dinner to be announced. Their eldest daughter,
a slim, acidulous-looking girl, just home from boarding-school, and
full of fads and “isms,” had said that, for her part, she did not
care for human flesh at all, and was of the opinion that pigs or
lambs, or even cows, would make just as good eating as the tenderest
enemy ever captured or the juiciest missionary ever broiled.

“How disgusting!” said her brother, a lusty young cannibal who had
once eaten two Salvation Army lassies at a sitting. “Really, if you
get such unpleasant notions at school, it would be better for you to
stay at home. My gorge rises at the idea. Ugh!”

“Papa,” said dear little kinky-haired E. Taman, the peacemaker of the
family, changing the subject, “why are missionaries better eating
than our neighbors and enemies?”

“Probably because they are apt to be cereal-eaters,” said her father,
the cannibal chief; “although one of the most delicious missionaries
I ever tasted was a Boston lady who had been raised on beans. She was
a Unitarian. Your Unitarians generally make good eating. There’s a
good deal of the milk of human kindness in them, and that makes them
excellent roasters. Now, you take a hard-shell Baptist, and you might
as well eat a ‘shore dinner’ at once. They need a heap of steaming,
and they’re apt to be watery when all’s said and done. But it must be
confessed they have more taste than a wishy-washy agnostic.”

“I think the most unsatisfactory of the lot,” said his wife, “is
your Presbyterian. He’s pretty sure to be dry and gnarly, and good
for nothing but fricasseeing. But I think that for all-round use,
although they haven’t the delicacy of the Unitarian, the Methodist is
what you might call the Plymouth Rock of missionaries. He’s generally
fat, and he hasn’t danced himself dry, and he’s good for a pot-roast
or any old thing. By the way, we’re going to have one to-day. I must
go and tell the cook to baste him well.”

The old grandfather, who had hitherto taken no part in the
conversation, said at this point: “Well, as you know, in my day I
have been something of an epicure, and I have tasted every variety
of dish known to cannibals. I don’t care for fresh-killed meat, no
matter of what denomination it is, and while I don’t wish to be
considered a sectarian, yet I do think that if you want a dish that
is capable of a good deal of trimming and fancy fixings’ get hold
of an Episcopal missionary; and, to me, the chief beauty of the
Episcopalian is that he’s apt to be a little high.”
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