Health Addiction

Come to the Dark Side...

Chocolate addicts, yes you. You know you're out there, not just women either.  Lots of folks who claim not to have a candy sweet tooth concede that they are powerless to fight off the charms of chocolate.  They (we) find themselves busting diets and succumbing to the massive amounts of sugar associated with the chocolate binging.  Well here's some good news: with a little tweaking and some careful steps, you can turn this dangerous obsession into a delightful health bonus without jacking up your insulin levels.

Downside to chocolate: Sugar, calories and caffeine.  I can't really speak to the caffeine, other than lay off the chocolate as you approach bed time.  The dangers of sugared-up milk chocolate are real.  Sugar should really be identified as enemy #1 to your health (far worse than fat which can be a real asset to your diet).  Sugar creates insulin spikes which wears out your pancreas and leads to insulin intolerance which is the fast track to diabetes. UGH. Sugar consumption leads to inflammation, the #1 cause of arthritis and general body pain and suffering.  And there's plenty of other science that's beyond me, but contains the same inevitable conclusion: When it comes to your health, Sugar just Sucks. Period.

I can hear you chocolate addicts now, "So what's the good news?"  Well, here are some steps to allow yourself to indulge in chocolate and really boost your immune system and overall health.  Almost sounds too good to be true.  It starts with one major step--you've got to go to the dark side.  Your tolerance of dark chocolate will determine whether your passion is chocolate or sugar.  Milk chocolate dials down the cocoa--the true source of chocolate flavor--and replaces it with massive amounts of the killer white. If you can't stand dark chocolate don't call yourself a chocolate lover, and good luck to you on the path to diabetes if you keep consuming the milky stuff in copious amounts.

For those of you still remaining, welcome. I'm Tim, a chocolate addict.  I love the complex, sophisticated taste of dark chocolate.  Goes incredibly well with red wine, and that's probably not a coincidence because they are both anti-oxident superpowers. I'm happy to say my addiction only applies only to the former and not the latter, so let's focus on the chocolate therapy to keep us all out of the doctor's office.  When shopping for chocolate, read the stats.  The higher the cocoa levels, the lower the sugar.  50% is a good starting point.  There are a lot of products with 55% cocoa, and it will remind you of mainstream milk chocolate, because it really isn't much of a departure.  You'll find these bars with yummy fruits inserted like raspberries and cherries, and that's only going to add to the sugar levels.  Try not to settle for these kinds of bars, because it's not sustainable.  While we are on the subject of chocolate bar additives, almonds, sea salt and chili peppers are all grand; cherries and other dried fruits are bad news. Dried fruit has significantly higher sugar levels than fresh fruits, which is already high.

Back to the chocolate...keep building up the cocoa levels in your bar, 70% is an ideal goal.  The taste is so complex, its hard to wolf down the really dark stuff.  Try a version with chili peppers, and maybe sip some cabernet, a sexy snack for a sophisticated palate (or just aged, burnt out taste buds!).  The 70% bar pictured above has only 24 grams of sugar in what I consider six generous servings, that's 4 grams of sugar per snack.  My favorite is to dip the dark chunks into gooey organic peanut butter. Not only does it taste fantastic, but the protein and fat counters the glycemic spike so there is barely a ripple on your insulin meter.  Dietary fat is a brain and energy boost, the dark chocolate is a world class anti-oxidant, and the protein from peanut butter is pure with no worries of dead animal flesh consumption.  This is a snack suitable for marathon runners, or just a couple of lovers on a Friday night.

So, live the chocolate dream...feel free to share the Choco-love.

Falling into the Dark Side

Do NOT underestimate the Diabolical Mrs. Dunster

The rainy morning up at the rustic camp was marked by food grazing. This breakfast contained extreme contrasts in nutritional health, and taste for that matter.

My 19 year old son was in his typical summer slumber, with me puttering about for three hours or so before he stirred: minding the fires, putting on the tea, prepping the kitchen. The steady rain on the pine needle carpet just outside the bunk windows insured Ted's late wakeup, leaving me lots of deadline-free kitchen time.

Having blown the forecast the night before, I needed to rescue laundry and a lined windbreaker from the porch railing, wringing things out and spreading them on the narrow cord hanging above the wood-burning stove. The cooler temps outside totally justified the first fire of our stay. The ample supply of birch bark helped the kindling stay lit; this fire was created with a mere two two matches in the 100 year old stove's burn box.

While I feel my way through life as a veggie-leaning omnivore, son Ted is a devout carnivore.  I have no desire to jeopardize our relationship with any ill-conceived conversion attempts. I just offer him stuff the occasional fruit or veggie and try to lead by example. Or not.

So while he snoozed in the white noise of gentle rain, I peeled my grapefruit, reheated some steel-cut oats and brewed blueberry tea. In deference to Ted, I also peeled open a pound of brand name bacon he picked out at the supermarket before we exited civilization. I slow-cooked it on the cast iron lids sitting atop the blazing firebox.  Once my system had ingested plenty of good calories, I indulged in a couple of bites of greasy, crisped swine.  Tasty yes, but not overpowering. There would be no binging on my end.  I cut up a green apple, sipped my tea, and read the latest Barbara Kingsolver novel, communing with my feminine side as Ted snoozed in harmony with the rain.

The second batch of bacon was finished in the big iron skillet, a couple of feet below the hanging windbreaker and towel above the stove when the teenage man-child sauntered into the kitchen. I pulled out cereal and milk from the propane fridge for him, as he pawed big clumps of hot fatback onto his plate. I joined him at the long table in the adjacent room, in front of the macho stone hearth, carrying a sack of pure hedonism. I dropped a sack of Mrs. Dunster chocolate sugar doughnuts, in front of us.  These concoctions come from Canada, and are much too bloated to even resemble doughnut, however. Statistically, they are prodigious: 300 calories per; a symmetrical 16 grams each of sugar and fat.  I poured the 2% milk, and we indulged wolfishly, no conversation other than the occasional grunt.

Holy hell, we had found food Nirvana.  I recognized this taste sensation from previous summers in north country: imagine the perfect devil's food cake lightly frosted with granular sugar, but about three times as dense.  All that taste was perfectly lubricated with a scary big dose of L-A-R-D. I checked the ingredients, the Dunster gang had made no attempts to mask the the four-letter word.  The milk washed our sinkers down perfectly. We munched in blissful silence.

I returned to the kitchen where I had reduced the airflow to the burn chamber of the stove, but maintained a low-intensity fire by shoving in small sticks of hard wood at 10 minute intervals. The bacon skillet had not been moved from the primary cooking surface, it was warm and eager for another mission. An that's when I had my Paula Dean moment of inspiration.  The cutting board and knife that had cut up Granny Smith an hour ago, now bisected a Mrs. Dunster down the length of her plump belly. I cranked open the air flow and added a full stick of hard wood to the fire.  Then I put two halves of dense, fatty chocolate cake and sugar stomach-down into the warming bacon grease.  I could feel Ms. Dean nodding her approval.

The toughened edge of a grilled doughnut is a texture that cannot be described to the uninitiated. A plain doughnut on a buttered grill tastes exquisite, a chocolate Mrs. Dunster's crusted in bacon grease is, is...is... is well worth the subsequent self-loathing and the year of kale, almonds and broccoli penance. Paula Dean, eat your heart out, we had hit a heart-attack home run.

    

Food Wars South of Mason Dixon

Food was a strong undercurrent in the "Bill and Tim adventure south to check in with Dad on Father's Day" road trip to South Carolina.  Nutritionally it could have been billed as a classic good against evil, and why not?  Bill arrived THU night with a cooler filled with really good s***: blueberries and apples and strawberries and brown pears some commercial yogurt and organic celery and carrots and two ripe avocados. There was even some spinach salad and cider.  I was stoked! Our first stop was less than a mile away at my supermarket for a big tub of hummus, a couple of Grapefruit, eight fantastic oatmeal flax cookies, a half gallon of almond milk and some super gooey organic peanut butter.  It was all dumped into his excellent cooler in the back seat of our little Toyota rental and off we drove, fully stocked for the nearly 2000 mile round trip mission into the deep South.

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We stopped for gas around 2 am in West Virginia somewhere, under the harsh neon lights of a convenience store attached to the pumps. Big sign for $4 lunch, Day and Night, with a picture of a deli sandwich piled high with meat and a sparkling icy soda. Bill and I had the munchies, and marched in to pee and look at all the read-to-consume items. The color and light and various P.O.P. displays all triggered purchase impulses, but the stuff was really all s*** with a capital S, so we cleared out.  A poor soul, single mom puffing a butt and drinking a coffee was outside by the pumps, and we shmoozed her like the fellow humans we are, sharing some quick life stories about where we are in our respective journeys for a few meaningful minutes.  I offered her an apple (or was it a pear?) but she declined gratefully, telling us she had just bought some cookies from the convenience store. We went south toward our dad, she went east away from a hurtful relationship.

Driving all night, hands wet on the Wheel

13 hours later we connected with Dad in the deep south, Aiken, South Carolina, the home of Piggly Wiggly stores and hard core BBQ road stops. After our happy greetings and introductions to dog pal Rupert we went off for a late lunch to a well-known BBQ spot just out of town, 10 miles from Augusta, five from Aiken.  Bother Bill had requested at least one authentic BBQ episode south of the Mason Dixon line, and this would be it. My dad doesn't eat out often, so he was eager.  As you know, I'm no vegan, but I listen and read and interact with several, and this was their worst nightmare.  There was a lot of crazy soupy stuff in the buffet meat-n-sides bar, and we paid the $2 extra for specially delivered ribs.  "Ribs" I said, "hmmm, little sweet pork baby backs?  St. Louis style dry ribs?  Big dark texas style beef ribs?"  No times three.  They were these sickly long gray pork ribs, as much jello-style fat as there was meat on the slick bones.  I cruised the "bar" for beans and slaw and nibbled on the leanest portion of one rib.  I watched the two Bills (father and brother) attack the deadly gray pork bones and drip grease and wet corn down their faces.  I detached and observed without getting completely grossed out, but it really was an extreme movie.  We three characters were defining our food positions here at Bobby's BBQ: Pops thrived on unhealthy chow--he likes Chili out of the can and pretty much stays away from anything that grows; Bill the younger eats everything, good and bad, sometimes to extremes; and while I preach the "food as medicine" do-gooder mantra, I frequently find myself sinking into the "happy hypocrite" role.  A true food saint would have bolted from the BBQ death load, I teethed on pig and filled my plate with sweet beens and runny slaw. The imagery from our booth with sauce, corn and animal fat running down faces was truly an x-rated vegan horror show. 

2 Bills after Porking Out

No one died. We moved on to our 3 pm visit with Dad's lawyer to take care of some family property business. Then it was back to the apartment. We loaded dad's fridge with all that foreign healthy stuff.  He was not the least bit interested. The guy does manage to drink OJ in the morning, along with danish rolls and instant coffee in heavily stained mugs. He uses a spoon to measure sugar for his coffee: when his spoon can stand straight up in the the sweet viscosity, it's just right. 

The guy is an 89 year old glycemic time bomb, and that's the rub. He is nine years past the 80 year old finish line of what many generations think of as a "long and happy life," he's a year from the 90 mark which is a grand finish line for anyone who measures life in a linear fashion. So, a mantra of irony was born: "Pops, you'll never make it to 40 eating like that!"  The guy has broken all the nutrition "rules" for the better part of 9 decades, yet he hasn't blown up and we're all a just a little envious or at least impressed that he has reached his ripe old age. 89 years and still lucid enough to challenge us on all grammar and usage and reporting acumen.  I offered him an apple as I snacked before dinner. No sale.

I'll abbreviate the remainder of this post for fear of becoming windy...that night we ate dinner at a sports bar so we could see the Red Sox. Sports bar fare is a lousy choice for those doing food penance. The salads consisted of limp lettuce, 3 grape tomatoes and carrot shavings. I saw a briscuit sandwich on the menu and fantasized about jewish delis in midtown Manhattan. Instead I got an Arby's reject. Oh the ignorance.  I started wallowing in food self-hate while dad enjoyed his meal thoroughly. Dissolve to breakfast the next morning at a local diner, I'm eating fried green tomatoes, brother Bill is wolfing down his fried bologna and egg sandwich, father Bill loads syrup onto his pancakes. I stopped judging, but doubled up on the lemons in my hot water. Patty the Filipino waitress did her best to provide me a side of red onions and tomatoes.  We all got along wonderfully.  Patty's life story made for marvelous theater; she emerged as our favorite non-canine character of the trip.

Diner Love

Off to the supermarket where Bill and I facilitated Dad's bi-weekly grocery shopping. We violate the healthy shopper's code by working the middle aisles: Entenmann's coffee cake rings, two boxes of sweet cereal, more insta-coffee and Ritz n cheddar fill the cart. Livin the American processed food dream. 

After getting home and putting his stuff away, I took a trip to an overpriced fresh food grocer. I collected another avocado, a ripe tomato, a juicy lemon and some blue tortilla chips.   I whipped up some quacamole in Dad's kitchen, loudly regretting the absence of garlic and onion. Big bro said not to sweat it, the last tableside quac he enjoyed only had the 'cado/lemon/tomato holy trinity.  So I really laid on the lemon over the mashed up 'cados and perfectly ripe tomato chunks, and the super fresh appetizer was served to dear old dad in front of the TV. He loved it.

Guac-a-mania

Dad had a Vodka gimlet to accompany his snack as he watched the US Open golf.  I sat like his caretaker
at the end, taking the burden off his shaky fingers to scoop all the loving remains of the green goodness onto his last half dozen chips.  He agreed it was great, but wouldn't trade it for the coffee cake rings. He DID, however, enjoy a flax cookie with his sugared up instant coffee that morning while brother bill and I sweated out some tennis nearby. With the Entenman's temporarily out, Dad ate flax!

Our farewell Saturday night dinner was at the grand steakhouse in town, in which Bill and I enjoyed an appetizer orgy of lightly cooked Tuna chunks dripping in ginger and Wasabi. The two Bills carved up their respective cows for their entree, while I enjoyed a medley of appetizers including asparagus, creamed spinach, tomato/vidalia onion salad and a searing hot dish of grilled Mexican peppers. Although I treasured the meatless fare, my most delectable moment was a generous forkful of charred filet from my bro, washed down with a sip of dad's macho Cabernet. Yes, the happy hypocrite, indeed.  Pops couldn't help but notice the passion for food being exercised across the table from him, plant-based food that was seasoned to delight. When he exited, however, he clutched his doggybag full of leftover steak as if it were gold dust from the Sierra Mountains.

So we leave Pops in his recently scrubbed apartment, with his larder full of processed food.  In 10 days the memories of his sons'  food passion will fade, and his coffee cups will return to their norm: charred with sugar and instant Maxwell House. At the end of the month he will enter his 90th year on this planet, 90 years of spiking his insulin every morning, of eating processed meats and worshiping the killer white sucrose. "He'll never see 40 I tell ya.