Lazy Self-Indulgent Book Reviews

Because it’s my favourite-magazine-which-isn’t-the-New-Yorker, and I’m a little fried after reading Harold Brodkey’s “This Wild Darkness” last night (I actually slept for eleven solid hours after finishing it), and one of the “Oprah’s trainer talks to Real Women” segments made me crazy.

It was the usual “you need to eat six servings of fruits and vegetables” moments, at which, obviously, the frazzled housewife is all “oh, my God, I can’t even,” and then they do the TAH-DAHHHH moment where they pull out the honest-to-God rubber model food plate to show her that FIVE BROCCOLI FLORETS is a single serving of vegetables.  “Wow, maybe I CAN do that,” smiles, applause.

I hate that shit.  I hate when magazines are all “do you realize your entree is really FOUR servings of blah blah blah” to people.  We’re not the ones with the problem here.  The problem is with whoever decided that the official serving sizes were for people recovering from stomach surgery.

I’m sorry, a serving of bread should be two slices.  You can run your mouth all you want about how in the 1940s cupcakes could only be seen with the aid of an advanced microscope, blah blah we’re so indulgent blah blah portion control, but I have literally never seen a human being sit down to lunch and eat a single slice of bread.  It’s not plausible.

And you don’t have to modify this to tell us to eat MORE, just tell us to eat FEWER SERVINGS once they’ve been brought in line with human standards. 

Don’t get me started with “you do know your protein is supposed to be the size of a deck of cards, right?”   SAYS THE FUCK WHO?   Oh, I’m so sorry, no one gave my salmon that memo.  I’ll just start ordering my chicken from the Hoyle factory, shall I?