Tonight, I scored a point for the home team. And by home team, I’m referring to those of us who still eat crap foods.
Our opposition consists of the ever-growing segment of consumers obsessed with healthy culinary habits. But in this instance, I’m referring to a specific variety of the health-obsessed: the raw foodie. My new friend Anthony is a raw foodist. He is also a model with a campaign that’s presently being broadcast on a larger-than-life billboard in Times Square in New York. So the odds were against me as we argued about the benefits of raw foods.
Let me be clear, Anthony is far from the normal highfalutin raw foodie who, in his own words, he describes as “too religious about raw-ness.” He’s sincere and respectful, and blessed with a chromosomal birthright that makes him look better than 99.9% of the population. Seriously, when he dies and passes through the gates of heaven, he should give God a high-five.
“I was a bit of an overweight kid,” Anthony reveals, dotting the rest of the conversation with descriptions of the recipes he invented for green shakes that combine spinach and chocolate he makes himself out of criollo beans slow-roasted at lower temperatures (he swears that roasting things below a certain temperature is within the rules).
The “Chubby Kid Syndrome” I’ve found has led many a person to the most extreme of diets. Kids are cruel, and their sneers are perpetually lodged into people’s childhood subconscious, snuggled right up there next to their love of model cars and cookies. I was never a fat kid, though I did go through somewhat of a makeover akin to Rachel Leigh Cook in the 90s romantic comedy “She’s All That,” where she took off her glasses, let down her hair, and got a new wardrobe. Still, I can understand how Anthony’s transformation must be a total retaliation against schoolyard bullies everywhere.
Anthony assured me there’s more to all this than just showing up bullies. He told me about the insane mercury levels that can be found in many large fish—the way he tells it, they’re practically virtual sponges sucking up chemicals from the ocean floor. He then rebutted the myth that soy beans are a health food, noting that they typically contain elements akin to estrogen, which can only equal one thing, he explains: man boobs. Then he listed the classic apocryphal powers of eating raw, namely extra energy, lower body fat, and eternal salvation. “You don’t say...” I nodded, impervious to his charms. (Remember my husband’s balut-eating display of love? That’s more my type.) I handed Anthony a slice of chocolate cake, which (GASP) was obviously not raw and had double the amount of vodka the recipe called for (probably because the recipe never listed vodka as an ingredient to begin with.) “I baked it myself,” I added, and then switched to the imperative. “Eat it. Eat it. Eat it...” He looked uncertain as he took a bite.