fredag 10. september 2010

I trust my heart to...pastured butter

I am currently in the US on my first visit since I got my new Norwegian passport (no hassles at immigration, by the way). It has been fun seeing family and friends, but I am dismayed by the prevalence of the metabolic syndrome. At O'Hare, by the gate, I could only count four men who were not at least 15 pounds overweight, and there were only two of us non-fatties who looked to be over 50.
I also can't get over the fact that practically all of my peers are on some statin drug or other. One, who is not rotund by any means, bragged at lunch about how his total cholesterol (TC) has now been lowered from 200 to 150. I didn't want to pop his balloon by pointing out the cancer risk, but I did say that 200 is not an unsafe level and that I thought that the drug companies were merely manufacturing illness to expand their customer base for "treatment".
The day before, I had lunch with another former colleague, and while he ordered a "low-fat fajita" something or other, I ordered a "Mexican omelet" and a side order of bacon (hold the toast - forgot to tell them to make the omelet in butter - I could taste the "heart-healthy" vegetable oil, luckily the sour cream made up for any polyunsaturated fatty-acid (PUFA) nastiness). I'm sure he was thinking that, with my 32-inch waist, I could eat all the eggs, cheese, bacon and sour cream I wanted, whereas he needed to watch his weight by eating low-fat. Well, as someone who struggled with a gut since the age of 11 and had no choice but to "watch my weight" (all I had to do was look down!), the opposite is the case: I look and feel the way I do because I eat cheese omelets with sour cream and would not touch a chicken fajita with a barge pole, unless it contained free-range dark meat, was sauteed in lard and I ate it with a fork, leaving the flour tortilla for the compost.

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