Thursday, February 1, 2007

Butter and vegetables

We are bombarded regularly with all sorts of doomsday reports about rampant obesity in children, and fingers point primarily to those marketing junk to kids. That may well be true, but my neighbor has an interesting take on it.

After an afternoon of chasing kids (why are we always one step behind?), we were both contemplating just what to make for supper, and all I knew was that I was going to cook up some carrots and top them with butter and dill (the carrot tops are earmarked for the guinea pig next door, Toffee). Irish Neighbor, swooping up her deliciously plump toddler, said that sounded yummy, and wasn't it terrible how the vilification of butter has put so many kids off eating their veggies.

I can recall our godson, messily eating slices of butter when he was about 3 years old. As a duly low-fat indoctrinated American adult, I was appalled at the apparently unhealthy aspect of it. But this mother--a wise woman as it turns out--maintained that babies need fat. And indeed, we now know that fats are indispensable for adequate brain and nerve development, not to mention essential for everyone to extract the goodness in vegetables. Hydrogenated margarine is harmful; the real thing is the right one. It's true: butter makes babies smart.

When we made butter the bad guy, we started steaming vegetables and serving them naked. No wonder kids weren't eating them: I much prefer my peas with a dollop of sweet cream butter, and so do kids. Is it instinct, I wonder?

So go ahead, put butter on the veggies, and make sure there's a nice olive oil on the salad. It doesn't need to be a Julia Child sized portion, just a nut of butter to slowly melt on its way to the table. An irresistible invitation, to all of us.

Wednesday, January 31, 2007

White coats and green symbols

I was 'net surfing yesterday, and came across a clip from the Today Show where they talked about irradiated food. My knee jerked when a fellow in a white coat (could have been a doctor or line worker) said, "There's no question that it's safe." I forced my knee back down. I don't want be radical, I want to remain open to all viewpoints. But I'm not fully convinced we know everything there is to know about this. I mean, think about it: we used to think that doing x-rays of pregnant women was safe, and people were routinely prescribed smoking as a way to calm their nerves. My generation is full of people with disfigured limbs from an FDA-approved medication against morning sickness. When does our arrogance end?

So I start digging. I learn that irradiation effectively kills bacteria, which sounds great, if you're afraid of bacteria. I quote the FDA: "Energy waves passing through the food break molecular bonds in the DNA of bacteria, other pathogens, and insects." Nothing there to help me understand how it can disrupt the DNA of the bacteria without affecting that of the food in question.

The debate quickly dissolves into polarized views, no middle ground to be found, so I turn to the Europeans for a more balanced view. In the EU, irradiation is currently allowed for preserving dried herbs and spices. (Ironically, this can include herbs in supplements.) These items often travel great distances, and are affected by more exotic pathogens. Something like curry powder must be labeled irradiated even if only one of its many ingredients has been subjected to ionizing radiation. And in response to concerns raised by the general population, the EU has placed a hold on further irradiation licenses in the bloc "until member states come to a concensus on the safety of some chemicals formed when food is exposed to radiation." Turns out that there are some compounds we don't know a lot about that result, and they're looking into it.

Back home, these chemicals don't seem to be on the FDA's radar, but at least they require irradiated food to carry a label identifying it as such. I do have bone to pick with those who deceivingly print the international symbol in the same green as used for the FDA organic symbol. I even found a thread of nuclear scientists discussing the logo, "The irradiated food RADURA symbol is usually printed in environmentally friendly GREEN, and it looks very [much like] the EPA logo with its flower design."


(Hint: the one in the middle is the radura, the international symbol for irradiated foods. The EPA logo is on the right.)

But it occurs to me that there's a relatively easy way to avoid the whole issue: buy fresh, buy local, buy organic. Sound familiar? If we think of irradiation as a way of preserving foods--and we must--then all foodstuffs that have been subjected to the gamma rays from cobalt-60 cannot be considered fresh. Buy fresh, buy local, buy organic.

Monday, January 29, 2007

Remorse

I cheated yesterday. I needed change for bus fare home, so to break a large bill, I ducked into a drug store and bought a package of Starburst "Fruit & Creme." Now, it has been literally years since I've eaten anything like it. (A co-worker in 1992 had them in his office at all times, where, together with Skittles, they formed the base of his personal food pyramid.)

I waited until intermission to open them. The bright packaging (my knee jerks: total overkill that should be illegal), the neatly organized rows of colors entice. I shared them with my seat mate, Number One Son. So, do I feel guilty? No, not really. It's not like I scarfed a huge Costco-sized bag of them. No, it was a tiny indulgence, and that should be OK.

Or is it? The ingredients list sounds like a who's who of food world baddies: high-fructose corn syrup, partially hydrogenated soybean oil, and panoply of numbered dyes. Yummy! Well, actually, it wasn't. It was disappointing. In spite of all the chemical ingredients (I'm suppressing a shudder as I write), these were nothing special as far as flavor was concerned. And the texture is just this side of ear wax. Frankly, if I'm going to fall off the real foods wagon, it should taste better than this. Sorry, Starburst, but this is goodbye. I'm going back where I belong.

Sunday, January 28, 2007

Not so whipped cream

Sunday! It's pancake or waffles, and if we're lucky, there's whipped cream to top them. But a quick peek in the fridge today is sobering: no whipping cream. There is, however, some soy creamer. We've bought soy whipped cream before, how hard can it be? We pour a cup into a bowl, add some vanilla sugar and start beating. It gets foamy like milk would, but that's about it.

Quickly, I dig out my vegan bible, How it All Vegan. They would know. Sure enough, page 151 tells me to add sugar and cornstarch to soy milk, and blend it while drizzling in some oil. I grab the container of cornstarch and start doing the math: 1 teaspoon for ¼ cup milk means 4 teaspoons for a cup. In it goes, and we start whipping again. It does get a bit thicker, but the bubbles start popping when we stop the mixer. Hmm. I try drizzling oil in, to no avail. The recipe does say to let it sit for an hour, which means we won't have whipped cream on our pancakes. Oh, well. The pancakes are yummy anyway, with syrup and jam and yogurt.

I read the comics and a bit of the Sunday paper, we call the in-laws, and then I come back to the bowl of whiteness. It's thick at the bottom, but whizzing it with the mixer yields the same result. Clearly, I have a dud on my hands.

Now, a good professional would just chuck the thing, but I'm still hopeful. I review what's in the white bowl of doom: soy milk (well, creamer), vanilla sugar, cornstarch and a bit of oil. Sounds like pudding to me. There is a Meyer lemon sitting forlornly on the counter. I zest it and juice it and add both to the white stuff, then pour the whole mess into a saucepan. A few minutes on the heat and the whole thing thickens--I fear far too much. Of course it did, there's enough cornstarch in there to set Lake Erie.

Fifteen minutes later, it's set so thick you can pull it out of the bowl in one piece. But it still smells lovely lemony. A couple of times, I come close to chucking it, but that heavenly lemon smell stops me. I bring it to the table for dessert, in four cute little bowls. We all eye it suspiciously. Number One prods his--to see if it will retaliate, presumably. I take a bite (after cutting it off with my spoon). Taste is delicate, texture desolate. I pass it to my Darling Husband and he tries it. He rises slowly from the table, marches purposely to the fridge, and returns with a jar. Yes, homemade jam, the duct tape of our kitchen. He finishes the bowl with jam. One bite even makes it into Little One.

Now, what am I going to do with the other three bowls?