The last two days the headlines have screamed death by fork. “All red meat is bad for you, new study says,” "Red meat is blamed for 1 in 10 early deaths," "More support for passing on the red meat."
That lovely piece of grass-fed roast I stuck in the crockpot Tuesday is apparently dietary crystal meth. Unsafe at any speed. The scientists at Hah-Vahd have deemed it so. People smarter than me have already dissected the study's flaws, but that's a story for another day.
Should I ingest something so clearly, appallingly poisonous as steak (mmmmmm.... t-bone... rare...), I could perhaps wash it down with red wine to mitigate the damage. That is, if I want to die of breast cancer. (Please don't let them bury me with an "I Love Boobies" bracelet.)
Potatoes anger the Glycemic Index Gods. Juice, breakfast smoothies and canned tomatoes are bad for me. Butter (mmmm.... butter...) goes straight to my biceps.
Too much protein will destroy my kidneys and dissolve my bones. Humans are evolutionarily incapable of eating grains. And everyone, everyone, everyone knows fat is evil.
I could keep going until there's nothing left but collard greens and fresh garlic. If they ever say garlic kills, you will find me running naked, screaming through the grocery with a machete beheading anyone who reaches for nonfat cream cheese (an abomination if ever I tasted one).
But... I'd better stick with organic on the greens and garlic. And organic greens and garlic are tough to come by at this time of the year in my corner of the world. Which leaves me with nothing. I'm pretty sure eating nothing will kill me.
So, I am back to the red wine. I drink it sitting in the backyard on that rarest of winter days here -- warm, but not windy. As much as I hate Daylight Savings Time, I love it tonight when I can soak in the sun after work (GASP! No sunscreen!). A little later, I'll go inside and make beef and black bean enchiladas. With lots of sharp cheddar cheese.
I raise my glass and drink a toast to living before I die.