I used to hate Joni Mitchell. My dad would play Blue and I would go on and on about her terrible, harpy voice. Even at seven, I could concede that she was a great songwriter—alright Dad, I’ll give you that, but her voice! I’d do my best Joni Mitchell warble, somewhere between a yodel and a teenage boy going through puberty. He would kind of roll his eyes and play it anyway. Sparingly, though, for my sake.

I don’t know what changed; if it was my soul that matured to greater appreciate the lyrics, or the tiny bones in my ears that matured to greater appreciate the sound. Whatever the reason, I can’t live without her now. Especially when I cook, I love to pour myself a glass of wine and dance around my kitchen barefoot while Joni sings My Old Man, California, and A Case of You. Especially A Case of You.

Maybe it’s too obvious a concept, but I find it interesting how tastes change as we get older. Coffee and alcohol, brussels sprouts and Joni Mitchell. Part of it, sadly, I think is a deadening of senses. I can remember when I first drank coffee, how intense all the flavors seemed. The smokiness of the roast and so bitter. It’s not that I don’t savor it anymore—I love coffee—but the taste has dulled a bit. I wonder if the same thing is true for everything else. If I can appreciate it more only because I can tolerate it better having lost all its potency. Does it stand to reason that Joni tugs harder on my heartstrings now because my ears have adjusted to tone down her caterwauls? Maybe there’s a window—somewhere between the sensory integration nightmare of youth and the muffled hearing and bleary eyes of old age—when appreciation reaches its pinnacle.

I think I’m there.