Preventing obesity is a laudable goal, but it has become the rationale for indiscriminate fat hunters. It can shade into a kind of bullying of the overweight, a badgering of anyone who likes butter or heavy cream. To the antifat crusaders, I say: Attack fatty junk food all you want. I’m with you. But you can deny me my roasted marrow bones when you pry them from my cold, dead hands.
In a similar vein to Ruhlman, Rosenbaum writes,
Still worse is the ninth circle of food hell to which the fat-phobic ninnies have consigned us: egg-white omelets. Is life worth prolonging for a few (alleged) extra months if said life has been spent enduring the repellent slabs of gluey, pasty albumen that so many self-congratulatory “health conscious” types consider to be a sign of their sanity? They want to purge themselves of dietary sin. I just want to purge.
Fear of fat has become a national sickness, an all-American eating disorder: Call it fatnorexia. Where is Uncle Toby from Shakespeare’s “Twelfth Night” lamenting that, under the oncoming reign of Puritan strictures, “there shall be no cakes and ale”?
It’s worth reading in its entirety.
Photo of scone with strawberry preserve and clotted cream by Foowee