Caregiving Unzipped: The Plate Matters

 

🍽️ The Plate Matters

When you’re caring for someone with dementia, you start to notice things you never thought about before. Little things. Things that seem too small to matter — until they do.

For me, one of the first things I figured out was that how much food is on the plate — and how it’s arranged — can make all the difference. I used to serve meals the way I always had: a full plate, everything nestled in, hearty and generous. American style. Value for your money style, at the buffet.

Oh, how many times I heard, “It’s too much,” or “I can’t eat all that.” And then I’d watch my dad eat half — maybe less — and lean back, satisfied (or annoyed at the leftovers), saying, “I ate a lot. I’m full.” It wasn’t about how much was actually eaten. It was about how much it looked like.
It was perception, not ingestion.

So I started changing how I plated things. I’d keep the portions the same, but I’d space them out more. I’d give each item its own little area, not let things run together. It made the plate look less crowded, less overwhelming.

I’d also compact the portions to make them look smaller. One egg on top of the other. Toast stacked, one slice over the other. Not exactly haute cuisine, but hey — it’s not like we were entering a plating competition. It was the same amount of food, just arranged in a way that didn’t feel like too much. And wouldn’t you know it — meals started getting eaten again. Not always, not plate licked clean, but enough to notice.

Now, I’ll say this — having bigger plates helps. It gives you room to space things out without making the portions look tiny. But if you’re using plates with high ridges or deep curves — the kind designed to keep food from sliding off — they can work against you when it comes to spacing. The food tends to slide back down into the center, and suddenly everything’s crowded again. Those plates are great for keeping food contained, especially if someone has trouble with coordination, but it comes at a cost. You lose that visual breathing room.

Then I started thinking about the plate itself. One day I served mashed potatoes on a white plate, and it hit me — they just disappeared. Same with eggs. Anything light-colored on a white plate just blended right in. And if you’re dealing with someone who has trouble with depth perception or visual processing, that’s a real problem.

So I tried a red plate. Suddenly, the food stood out. Not everything — tomatoes kind of vanished — but most things popped. I tried blue next. That worked too. I even tried plates with bold borders, just to give the eye something to focus on. And again, it wasn’t a magic fix, but it helped.

Because again — it was perception, not ingestion. If the food couldn’t be seen clearly, it might as well not have been there at all.

Now, I’m not saying go out and buy a whole new set of dishes. What I usually tell people is: grab a few paper or plastic plates in different colors. Try them out. See what works. If one color seems to help, then maybe it’s worth investing in something sturdier. Just don’t expect miracles — unless you count someone finishing their peas without too much of a battle and chasing with the fork. In that case, yes, it’s a miracle.

The thing is, none of this is one-size-fits-all. What works for one person might not work for another. And what works today might not work next week. But when you’re in the thick of caregiving, you learn to pay attention to the little things. Because sometimes, those little things are the only things you can control.

I have different color plates. When I make darker food, I use white plates without an issue. When I make lighter foods, more colorful, I use red plates. Dad eats most of his eggs when they’re on a red plate, but leaves a lot of the whites on a white plate. So, that’s a plan-ahead thing for me. A small adjustment, but it makes a difference.

And when something clicks — when a plate gets cleared, when a meal goes smoothly — it feels like a win. A quiet, hard-earned win. And those are worth holding onto.

There are still those days, those “this is too much!” days, where I just shrug and say, “Eat what you want, don’t what you don’t.” And then be told he wants jelly on his toast now — after asking for butter before. That’s common. Asks for jelly, I bring it out, and he’s disappointed because he wanted butter. Best to go with butter and add the jelly later. More calories anyway. And easier to spread.

Mark Van Dyke