That brings us to now. For the first time in my entire life, I do not feel much like using words. This is a baffling sensation for me. Words are my paint and paintbrush, my guitar and drum. I can barely summon the will to finish sentences half the time and if I had any skill at all with a camera this would be a photo blog. I don’t know what this all means. Perhaps it’s a stage of life or a stage in every artist’s life where the medium falls away and something else presents itself. At the moment, I want to communicate through the colors and textures of pickled beets and peach butter. The internet, while very useful, does not yet offer us the fragrances of cinnamon and sweet basil. I don’t know how to talk to you without rosemary-infused olive oil.
And there is never enough time to talk, is there? Especially when we don’t want to. There’s never enough time when berries are ripe and skin is warm with sweat and we move through this sweet quietude. In other news: near my sister’s house sits an enormous dairy farm. The homeowners’ association is most exercised about the aroma of cow poop on the breeze.
I forgot what I was going to say. Let me start over:
This morning, my co-worker stepped off the bus and onto the curb. At the same moment, elastic let go and her pants fell to her ankles. The bus driver, seeing this, said, “Have a good day, ma’am.”
Our lives are short. I try not to wish away time I’ll never get back or remember when I last got my car inspected. This weekend: it’s blackberries or bust and no second chances. There is still time for golden beets.
I meant to say those things. And these, too:
Imagine the grandest salad. Statistically speaking, there will always be one more pistachio.
Do you remember when cicada song and cooling sweat at the nape of your neck signified a new day and your own endless possibility?
Haven’t figured out why yet, but I joined Twitter. This immediately gave me a headache and made me love Steve Martin more, since he doesn’t write in Twitter’s secret code language. Do not pretend that Twitter is not peepulated with cool-kid code. It certainly is and that is a bore. Strange upside: Mr. Bittman might introduce us to someone interesting.
Prior to pursuing his nutrition studies, Andy [Bellatti] completed a bachelor’s degree in journalism and gender & sexuality studies at New York University.
His passion for nutrition was partially sparked by the sheer confusion he used to experience when trying to determine what constituted healthy eating in a society where nutrition messages are often clouded by marketing, sales profits, and hype.
Hey! I’m confused all the time! He sounds promising. What’s he on about?
…I’m shining the spotlight inward, taking a look at pervasive, accepted, and often times unquestioned concepts, ideas, and issues within the field of nutrition that carry a significant risk of self-harm. They are dangerous because they don’t allow for growth, critical analysis, or substantive dialogue; instead, they minimize the nutrition field’s importance and have helped create the current free-for-all we are in, where the term “nutrition expert” is as loosely thrown around as “reality TV star”.
Ooooooh. Mr. Bellatti, you have my undivided attention. Tell me more.
1) “There is no such thing as junk food”/”there are no bad foods” 2) “Moderation!” 3) “Healthy Eater = Red Flag” 4) “You Have To Be Realistic” 5) The American Dietetic Association Isn’t A Health Organization
It is hard to imagine how Mr. Bellatti wrote that entire post without sticking an ADA monogrammed pen through the ribcage and enlarged heart of a junk food-defending dietitian. You should read the whole thing and the comments, too, for extra goobertastic entertainment. For the life of me, I can’t figure out what the point of getting a degree in food science is if you’re scared to even ever-so-gently TELL PEOPLE ABOUT GODDAMN FOOD SCIENCE. Fast food is not food. That’s not a secret you should prepare to take with you to the grave, nutritionists!
Some people argue that if we do not preach moderation, we are setting the stage for unreachable perfectionism and eating disorders, a position that I find grossly melodramatic. Recommending that people shy away from fast food whenever possible is not about perfection; it’s healthful advice.
Who are these professionals who say stopping at McDonald’s is a fine idea? Who are they? What exactly is wrong with them? I’d really like to know.
…And then I was yelling at the driver going the wrong way on the one way park road in a decidedly Jersey fashion.