Fear of Food

“Americans,” Julia Child used to say in her inimitable warble, “are afraid of food.” Back when she had her TV show, from 1963 to 1973, we thought that the worst thing about food was that it would make us fat. But then we heard that salt would give us heart attacks, and a few years later learned of the danger posed by fats, not to mention that worst of all poisons, sugar.

While we were training ourselves to avoid salt, fats, and sugars, however, we were also learning about the power of certain substances, such as Vitamin C (since then sadly debunked), certain minerals, and  the bacteria in fermented foods to keep us healthy and vibrant practically forever. Then polyphenols burst on the scene. Found in plant foods such as olive oil, coffee, chocolate, red wine, and richly colored vegetables and fruits, polyphenols help control blood sugar levels and kill viral and bacterial invaders. And they protect from oxidative stress and inflammation, the things that will ultimately make you grow old and die.

So now we have two reasons to look with suspicion at what is on our plates: on the one hand, what we are about to eat may make us fat and sick; on the other, it may not be good enough. If Americans were afraid of food in the 1960s and 1970s, we are terrified of it in the 2000s.

I am a woman of a certain age, and I often eat with my female contemporaries. Together, we recapitulate all the food phobias that have haunted us since we came of age in the Julia Child years. Dessert is always a topic of interest: how delicious it looks, how large the portions might be, how high in calories—followed by acts of contrition about the last time we gave in to temptation and ate a brownie.  If the entree features meat, we worry about its effect on the climate as well as on our arteries. If we opt for a vegetarian dish, there is all that cheese waiting to inflame our tissues. And if we choose fish, we can barely taste it for worrying about mercury, microplastics, and the depletion of the oceans.

Even if we limit ourselves to a salad, we can’t bask in a feeling of moral superiority. Instead, we wonder about the freshness and purity of the greens (organic, or sprayed with awful stuff?), and what are these tomatoes doing on our plate in January? They must come from Mexico. Plus, the oil in the dressing might be slightly rancid, which renders it oxidative….

All this makes me think of my Catalan childhood, and of my mother and my four aunts. The only food-related worry that they suffered from was that someone at the table, especially me, might not be eating enough. Otherwise, they merrily consumed their version of the Mediterranean diet: lots of animal protein (pork, chicken, and quantities of fish); moderate amounts of veggies, and only in season (no salads in winter); for dessert, fruits in summer, and almonds, raisins, and dried figs in winter. Wine, bread, garlic, and olive oil at every meal. Cakes and fancy desserts were reserved for religious holidays, and always purchased from a bakery.

These women were not skinny, but neither were they fat. They walked everywhere, ate as much as they liked (but only at meals—snacks were unknown) and if they worried about their figure, I never heard about it. All five lived well into their nineties.

Lately I’ve been wondering what ill effects our fear of food might be having on us. What if  looking at food with as much suspicion as a dinner guest of the Borgias is as unhealthy as consuming salt, fat, and sugar? Isn’t it possible that taking pleasure in food is in itself nourishing? Our taste buds were given to us for a reason, and it is a sin against Nature to deprive them of everything they like. “Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy,” Benjamin Franklin said. So, I say, are chardonnay, coffee ice cream, and lasagna.