Frank: I don't get it. How is this happening to me?
Ray: Maybe- Maybe your sinuses are stuffed up. You know, 90% of taste is smell. That would explain why you don't smell... you.
Frank: Nah, I can smell me. I just don't mind me.

Ray: All right, when did you start noticing that Ma's cooking was slipping?
Frank: I don't know. About two weeks ago.
Ray: Well, have you been doing anything different in the last two weeks?
Frank: I haven't done anything different in the last 50 years.

Robert: Hey, Ray, you mind if I watch the game over here? Ever since Sunday brunch Mom's been all depressed. She's just sitting in front of the TV eating doughnuts.
Ray: What, did Dad just give up the remote?
Robert: Didn't even put up a fight.
Amy: Since this whole thing, they haven't been fighting at all. I miss the yelling.
Robert: I miss Ma's cooking. She hasn't cooked anything in three days.
Debra: This is crazy. Everything's falling apart because of food? It's just food. You can't base a marriage on food.
Ray: Well, you and I can't.

Marie: Taste this pesto, Raymond.
Ray: Mmm. Oh. Perfect.
Marie: Really? You like it?
Ray: Yeah, of course.
Marie: I don't know anymore. Last night your father told me my lasagna needed salt.
Ray: What? Come on.
Amy: I don't believe it.
Debra: How dare someone criticize another person's cooking?

Marie: I have to admit, all great artists must face the fact that someday their gifts will fade.
Ray: Ma, come on. Your gifts aren't fading, huh? You the man.
Marie: You know, your father used to salivate over my meals. But lately it's like he's just going through the motions.
Ray: Ma, Ma, Ma. You still got it. You're the Pavarotti of pesto.
Marie: That's a sweet boy. Nothing like his father.

Robert: Hey, what do you got there?
Ray: I got Marco's hot peppers, I got hot mustard from Wo Hop's. Everything from Mom's "ethnic" shelf.
Robert: All right, let's start with the horseradish.
Ray: Oh, oh, Wasabi. I got wasabi.
Robert: Ah, and how about a little jalapeno?
Ray: Yeah. Yeah. That's right. Right.
Robert: Perfect. Here you go, Dad. Why don't you try that one?
Frank: Okay, but I'm telling you... They're all the same.
Ray: Dad, that had horseradish, wasabi and jalapeno on it.
Frank: It did?
Robert: How can you not taste that? [screams after eating the mini quiche]
Ray: Oh, my God. Dad, you've got no taste.
Frank: Holy crap.
Robert: Aaagghh!
Frank: And this whole time I thought it was your mother.

Marie: What's going on? First you tell me my lasagna needs salt, and now Debra's frittata is good. ''Oh. Wowee. Ooh.'' ls this some kind of a scheme to finally drive me insane?
Frank: No.
Marie: Then why are you torturing me?
Frank: I'm not torturing you.
Marie: Then what are you doing?
Frank: I can't taste.
Marie: What do you mean?
Frank: I've lost my sense of taste.
Marie: Are you sick?
Frank: No.
Marie: Well, how do you know? Did you go to a doctor?
Frank: I'm not going to a doctor. I'm just getting older, okay?
Marie: So you're not gonna try to fix it?
Frank: Leave me alone.

Amy: I can't believe Marie. Frank can't help it if his tongue is getting old.
Debra: Why can't she be more sensitive? You know, I wouldn't be surprised if this whole thing was her fault to begin with.
Amy: What do you mean?
Debra: Well, I mean, who's to say that after 47 years of Marie's constant criticism and nagging, Frank just couldn't take it anymore, and his losing his taste is a psychosomatic way of not listening? He is tuning her out with his tongue. [Robert rolls his eyes]
Amy: Wow. Yeah. Yeah. That makes sense.
Debra: Yeah, huh? Nobody ever stands up to this woman. Ray, get over there.
Ray: What?
Debra: Go. Go. Go tell your mother this is all her fault.
Ray: You don't know what you're talking about.
Debra: I know you're scared of your mommy.

Amy: Well, why didn't he just tell Marie that?
Robert: Because he's very sensitive about his foot.
Debra: Oh. So by foot, you mean... not his foot.
Ray: Go to the mall.
Amy: Well, then what are the pills for? [Debra looks at Amy] Oh. That foot.

Debra: You know, this is crazy. I mean, Marie should know all about this.
Amy: Of course. Somebody should tell her.
Ray: No, no. It's not gonna be any of us, okay? This is between a man and his podiatrist.