Year of the Cow (25 page)

What Paleo adherents do pay attention to, however, is the type of fat: stuff you could find in or around nature. Coconuts. Avocados. Nuts. Animal fats from pastured animals. Stuff that could go bad, rather than products designed to last until the next ice age. To be avoided are industrial, highly processed, or refined fats: vegetable oil, canola oil, corn oil, shortening. I'm avoiding most of that stuff already. Studies have shown industrial fats can have a variety of undesirable effects on the body, and whatever nutrients were present in the original food, if any, are destroyed by the high-heat refining process.

Although all the Paleo approaches seem to vary somewhat around the edges, the core principles are very similar. They aren't diets per se, in the faddish sense (though some approaches could be described as fads), and the archetypal “Paleolithic ancestor” is just an illustrative tool, rather than an attempt to emulate a specific preagricultural population. The approaches are more descriptions of how the body works and how a person can run it at optimal efficiency. Like cows eating corn or runners wearing crazy shoes—the body didn't evolve to get plantar fasciitis at the first hint of a 5K—we've put the body in a position for which it isn't really adapted.

Running shoes have been around for only about fifty years. Agriculture has been around for about twelve thousand years, but
Homo sapiens
have been around for two hundred thousand years.
Homo erectus
first stood up somewhere in the neighborhood of 1.7 million years ago. Like shoes to runners, agriculture confers some definite dramatic and tangible advantages to those who utilize it. However, a civilization's adoption of agriculture historically was frequently accompanied in the archaeological record by signs of malnutrition in their skeletal remains, as well as increases in dental cavities. Though one should be careful not to generalize a process as widespread and varied as the adoption of agriculture, there is some evidence to assert that the adoption of agriculture frequently led to overreliance on one or a small number of foods and had some systemic detrimental effect on health—in addition to the positive effects of ready food sources as a hedge against starvation.

We evolved to avoid diseases of food scarcity. Today, however, many of our diseases are diseases of abundance. “In the wild,” sweet things are rare. Berries. Honey. The saps of some trees. Our bodies evolved to like sweet things, because in nature sweetness indicated that a food would provide an intense simple-sugar burst of energy—a rarity. For millions of years, there was no worry about us overdosing on sweet things. Now, there is.

Preagriculture, corn actually looked like the grass that it is: pinhead-sized kernels on slender amber stalks. It would be hard to live on a diet composed of 69 percent preagricultural corn. But now, Americans consume about 69 percent of their calories from this mutant grass in one form or another.

Rather than consisting of a dour list of prohibitions, however, the various Paleo philosophies celebrate the foods that they consider healthy and wholesome in much the same way that the Slow Food and Weston A. Price movements do. Grass-fed and pastured animal protein. Offal. Copious amounts of vegetables. Good fats. In addition, there is an emphasis on physical exuberance. On moving with joy as well as with ferocity. On sucking the marrow out of life—both literally and figuratively. I like that.

I'm intrigued. As with barefoot running, I can't really see any downside to self-experimentation. My One Step Back approach has served me well so far. I wonder what will happen if I take it one step further.

I was down the rabbit hole before. Now, I wonder how deep it goes.

*   *   *

It's Wednesday night. Declan is playing with blocks in the living room. I'm standing barefoot in my kitchen next to Summer, trying to figure out something for dinner. We aren't having any luck.

“I could make spaghetti,” Summer offers.

“Nah,” I say. Spaghetti is made from grains. As an experiment, I've decided to eschew grains for a while and see how it makes me feel. So far, it makes me feel like crap. Sluggish, fuzzy-headed—just a bit out of sorts. Still, I will persist. I'm nothing if not persistent. This experiment does not, however, make it easier to put together dinner for the family. “What about a salad?” I offer.

“Had it for lunch.”

“Soup? I know of one we could—”

She cuts me off. “Why don't we just order a pizza?”

I shake my head. Then, an idea hits me: something I've been reading about. “Hey, do you remember how to make your dad's pizza sauce?”

“Sure.”

“Perfect. I'll make meatza.”

She blinks. “Wait, what?”

*   *   *

Forty-five minutes later, a small pot of homemade pizza sauce simmers on the back of the stove as I pull out my cast-iron skillet. I love this thing. It's my favorite surface to cook on now, bar none. The cast iron heats up slowly and evenly, it's damn near indestructible, and it's largely nonstick. High heat? Low heat? Searing? Frying? Oven roasting? Cast iron don't care. Cast iron can do that and will do that better than anything else in the kitchen. I cook with it all the time now, and it's gotten shinier and blacker as a result. Cast iron, treated properly, gets better with age as carbon from cooking fats seals to the metal, making the surface slicker and more durable. The more it's used, the better it gets.

I drop the skillet on the stove with a thud. “Easy,” my wife admonishes. But I love slamming this thing around. This isn't some pantywaist casserole dish. This is a hunk of slag iron. This is for making shit
hot.

In a bowl, I whisk an egg, then add a pound of ground beef and some herbs. Once the mixture is thoroughly combined, I transfer it to the cast-iron skillet, pressing it down to line the bottom of the skillet—as thinly and uniformly as I can. If this were pizza, I'd be making a pizza crust. But I'm not making pizza.

I slip the skillet into the oven to brown. After about twelve minutes, the meat disk has shrunk considerably. I remove it, drain off all the fat that I can, and turn my attention to toppings.

Also, I mentally note that this dish seems ridiculous. I take a brief moment to cackle maniacally.

Right. Toppings. Because the “crust” is meat, vegetation is the order of the day. Specifically, red onions, black olives, and a little mozzarella cheese. After a thin layer of tomato sauce, I add the toppings and a little julienned basil for garnish. After a five-minute broil—the meat is already cooked, and this is just to melt and partially caramelize the cheese—dinner is served.

At the table, Summer's eyes dart from the meatza to me and back. The disk has been sliced into one-inch squares for easy noshing.

“So, it's pizza,” she says.

“More or less.”

“But with a meat crust instead of a bread crust.”

I hesitate. Then, “Yeah.”

She sighs, not sure what to think. “Okay, let's do this thing.”

I serve the three of us tiny cubes of faux pizza. It's tasty—the cheese and meat picked up nutty flavors from the Maillard reaction, and the veggies are a welcome counterpoint—but it isn't pizza. Declan picks off the cheese but largely leaves the meat.

Without warning, Summer laughs. “You made a damn pizza with a meat crust.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I guess I did.”

She starts laughing harder. “This isn't a pizza.”

Now I start laughing. “Not really, no.”

She brings a hand to her face as guffaws roll out of her in great waves.

“It's good, though! It's not a failure!” I protest.

She tries to control herself. “No. It's like a meatball with cheese and tomato sauce on it. And veggies.” The laughter rumbles back. “But it is not, in any sense or fashion, a
frigging pizza
.”

Declan starts laughing, too, catching the giggles from his mother. Finally, unable to resist, I join in as well. The three of us dissolve into hilarity, tears streaming down our cheeks, unable to speak or do much of anything for several minutes.

No. It is not in any way, shape, or form a pizza.

But I'm okay with that.

*   *   *

For the next couple of weeks, I eat no grains at all. No bread. No wheat whatsoever. No oatmeal. No corn, no corn chips, no tortillas. No sugar or anything containing sugar. I drink heavy cream in my coffee. I eat beef. A lot of eggs. A lot of salads. And a lot of salads with beef and/or eggs. More veggies than a vegan fever dream. For much of this time, I feel terrible. I'm hungry. A little groggy. I feel like something isn't right. Not ill per se, but out of sorts. I'm not accustomed to eating like this. I'm keeping up with my personal and professional obligations, but barely.

Then, one Thursday, I drop Declan off at day care and trundle off to the office. I don't eat much for breakfast today because I'm just not hungry. But I don't feel ill. I don't feel anything, really. I feel … fine.

I also forgot to make a lunch. So around midday, I swing by a local joint with a decent salad bar. I sidle up and fill my to-go box with an assortment of brightly colored veggies. Then, on a whim, I add a few cherry tomatoes. I don't usually eat tomatoes, but what the hell. Today I'm feeling frisky. Man cannot live on red peppers alone.

Back at my office, I sit down to lunch. I'm eating at my desk because the time that I would have spent in an idyllic workday picnic had to be used for acquiring a salad instead. This will be a working lunch, as I try to put my day back into some semblance of order. Eyes on my computer screen, I spear a tomato with my fork and take a bite.

Dear God.

This tomato is the most spectacular, heart-stoppingly delicious piece of plant matter I've ever placed in my mouth. It is the platonic ideal of yum. I had no idea that tomatoes—nay,
plants at all
—could taste so good. This tomato could stop wars or start them. It is Turkish delight, Soma, and the spice of Arrakis all rolled into one. I freeze and look down at my salad. What alchemy, what esoteric dark arts did the nice people at the Ralph's employ to make this tomato so transcendent? So divine?

I think. I haven't eaten any processed sugar, or anything sweet at all, really, for a couple of weeks now. What seems to have happened—what must have happened—is that I'm very sensitive to sweetness now. It's something rare and special. Something to be savored. Further, there are subtleties in the flavor of this tomato that aren't readily apparent to taste buds numbed by a deluge of sugar and sugar substitutes. It's richer and fuller than any tomato I've ever had. Or, more accurately, I'm more aware of its richness and fullness. It's like I've never quite tasted a tomato until this moment.

I poke through my salad. I only have six tomatoes. Why on God's green earth did I not get more tomatoes? Why didn't I fill my chintzy plastic tub to the brim with tomatoes? What was I thinking? From now on, it's all tomatoes, all the time.

Or, you know. Maybe tomorrow I'll get a few more tomatoes in my salad.

Wow.

*   *   *

The next morning, I open my eyes on a new world.

I'm alert, focused, and not sluggish at all. What's more, rather than experiencing merely the absence of the malaise I've encountered for a week or two—I feel actively fantastic. I get Dec ready for day care in record time, and I'm out the door in a flash. I drop off Declan and head into the office feeling like a million bucks.

Once I've settled into my routine, it dawns on me: I completely forgot breakfast. Ordinarily, this would be a problem. Ordinarily, this would make me a little shaky and cause my mood to plummet as my hypoglycemic tendencies took hold. Ordinarily, I'd grumpily search for a bagel.

Evidently, that is no longer ordinary.

I attack my day from a cloud. Extra couple of scripts? No problem. Deliverables changed? No biggie. I feel light and quick. I have energy and enthusiasm to spare. I find myself tackling random self-imposed physical challenges for no real reason at all. Can I jump over that? Let's find out. How many steps can I take running on the wall before I crash back to earth? Three, barely. How many pull-ups can I do? Not enough.

Lunch is another enormous salad—a salad of the gods. Extra tomatoes.

After lunch, I go on a walk. I have my phone, so I'm reachable, but the office won't collapse if I'm gone for twenty minutes.

I walk a little farther than I anticipated.

Then, I run.

I am exuberant.

 

Meatza

Time: 1 hour 30 minutes

Serves 6

Just because you give up grains doesn't mean you have to give up pizza.

Well, okay. It kind of does.

James Beard made a version of this, which he called “hamburger pizza.” This isn't quite a pizza, but it is a respectable meal in its own right—and filling: A little meatza goes a very long way.

1 large egg

1 pound grass-fed ground beef

1 clove garlic, minced

1 teaspoon kosher salt

1 teaspoon dried oregano

1 teaspoon dried thyme

¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

About ¼ cup Tomato Sauce, or to taste (recipe follows)

4 ounces mozzarella, shredded

½ red onion, sliced

4 ounces pitted black olives, sliced

5 fresh basil leaves, thinly sliced

  
1.
Move one rack of the oven to the topmost position and the other to the middle. Preheat the oven to 450°F.

  
2.
In a large bowl, whisk the egg until smooth. Add the beef, garlic, salt, oregano, thyme, and pepper, and knead thoroughly to combine.

  
3.
Press the beef mixture into the bottom of a cold 10-inch cast-iron skillet, pressing it all the way to the edges in a uniform thickness. In general, thinner is better. It helps to gently work the meat mixture up the side of the cast-iron pan, to give the eventual “crust” a concave shape. The disk will shrink during cooking.