The sad truth is there is no way to fight this perception.
It’s rubbish, of course, because it is not the real food that is the issue, but the memory of it that is seen through rose-colored glasses. It is the remembrance of that long-lost yellow plate with a chip on the edge and painted with the daisy, on which the lasagna was served, and the way the sunlight fell across the kitchen table.
As they say, memories are made of this and there ain’t no way to fight ‘em.
Not incidentally, in the brain, the center for memory is anatomically close to the center for interpreting smell and taste.