Patient: Morning, doctor.
Doctor: Sit down, Bill. Your cholesterol's up a touch. We should talk about the eggs.
Patient: We talked about the eggs in 1996.
Doctor: Did we?
Patient: You told me three a week. No more. You were very firm about it.
Doctor: That was the guidance then.
Patient: In 2004 you said one a day was probably fine.
Doctor: The evidence moved on.
Patient: In 2015 you said eat as many as I like, the cholesterol in the food barely touches the cholesterol in the blood.
Doctor: That was a big year for eggs.
Patient: And now we're back to watching the eggs.
Doctor: We're refining the advice.
Patient: Thirty years, doctor. Same eggs. Same hens, near enough. Same me.
Doctor: Science evolves, Bill.
Patient: The egg hasn't moved an inch.
Doctor: ...
Patient: I've changed my breakfast four times to keep up with a chicken that's done nothing different since the Romans.
Doctor: ...
Patient: Which version of you am I meant to trust this morning?
It’s always fascinating when people argue with a point that was never made.
My post below was about unsolicited political SMS messages. The reference to Palmer was because he became synonymous with mass political text messaging.
The counterargument from one person who took umbrage at my post was that Labor and the Liberals send unsolicited SMS messages “most days”.
If that’s true, which I seriously doubt, then they deserve exactly the same criticism.
But if someone is genuinely receiving political SMS messages “most days”, I’d suggest they learn how the block function works. It’s far more useful than arguing with points that were never made.
The issue isn’t which party sends them. The issue is that they are sent at all.
At the height of the cholesterol panic, somebody worked out you could take the best part of the egg, throw it away, and sell what was left back at a markup.
The product was egg substitute. Egg Beaters, launched in 1972, being the famous one. Pour out the carton and you get a liquid that is roughly ninety-nine percent egg white, thickened with gums to act like a real egg in the pan.
What they took out was the yolk.
The yolk is where the egg keeps almost everything worth having. The choline your brain runs on. The vitamin A, the vitamin D, the K2. The fat-soluble nutrients, the actual point of the egg, packed into that small golden centre.
The white is mostly protein and water. Useful, but it is the packaging, not the present.
So the industry binned the nourishing half for holding cholesterol, then fortified the whites with synthetic vitamins to replace what it had just thrown out, dyed them yellow to mimic the part it removed, and stamped the carton with a heart-health endorsement.
The hen made a complete food. We paid extra to have it taken apart, faked, and handed back.
Somewhere there is a chicken who would like a word.
It’s the $4.5 trillion system we all rely on – but one dad is warning Aussies they could end up in a dire situation just like him. Full story: https://t.co/zjjChyxTqE
Here’s Klaus, he is describing a future where you have no privacy, every thought, word and action watched and monitored by authorities.
A world where, if you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear.
He means as long as you agree with everything they do.
🚨 Jasmine Sussex - who is being sued for saying men can’t breastfeed - returns to QCAT TODAY to set a date to appeal the January decision denying her legal team access to medical information about the applicant’s “chestfeeding.”
“A vilification claim will not change the biological reality that only women can breastfeed. It is wrong that innocent babies are being used as props to validate an adult’s gender identity,” writes our Head of Advocacy @stephbastiaan.
➡️ Catch up on the case: https://t.co/KKHxx7WcJL
#IStandWithJasmineSussex #Auspol
Ancel Keys
>has data from 22 countries
>cherry-picks 7 that fit his hypothesis
>ignores France, Switzerland, West Germany, all of whom eat butter and have low heart disease
>publishes the result as "the Seven Countries Study"
>becomes the most cited nutrition researcher of the 20th century
>destroys the careers of any scientist who points out the missing fifteen countries
>creates the dietary guidelines that 350 million Americans and 60 million Britons will follow for the next seventy years
>watches obesity, diabetes, and heart disease climb every year of his career
>later quietly admits dietary cholesterol doesn't really affect blood cholesterol
>quietly retires to the Mediterranean
>lives to 100 eating butter, cheese, eggs, and red meat
>never apologises
>never recants
>never gives the careers back
>"the science is settled, don't question it"
Brian has a pup. The fell has not seen one in a while, and the fell has opinions, and so does the pup, and almost none of them are correct yet.
His name is Moss. He is a Border Collie, fourteen weeks old, black and white and entirely convinced, and he has arrived on a Cumbrian hill to learn the oldest job a dog has in this country, which is to move sheep without harming a hair on them, using nothing but position, patience, and the strange ancient power that a collie carries in its eyes.
Because that is the thing about a collie, the intricacy that makes the breed what it is. A collie does not herd by chasing or biting. It herds by "the eye," a fixed, crouching, predatory stare inherited straight from the wolf, the look that says to a sheep "I am a hunter and you will move," delivered by a dog that has been bred for a century and a half to feel the entire predatory sequence right up to the final pounce and then stop, and hold, and never complete it. A working sheepdog is a wolf that has been taught to do everything except the last thing. The control is the whole art.
Moss has the eye. He does not yet have the control. He has, this week, "gathered" a watering can, a wheelbarrow, three hens belonging to the neighbour, and Brian's wife's washing, dropping into the crouch and giving each of them the full ancestral stare before attempting to move it somewhere it did not wish to go.
Brian is not worried. Brian has done this before, more times than he will say, and he knows that the instinct arriving wrong and early is exactly how it is meant to arrive, and that the job now is years of patient shaping, the pup working beside an older dog and an older man until the wolf in him learns the one rule that makes him useful instead of dangerous: everything except the last thing.
Moss gave Doris the eye on Tuesday.
Doris, who has been stared at by better, carried on grazing.
Moss sat down, confused. The first lesson on the fell, delivered free, by a ewe: the look only works on something that believes it. He has a great deal to learn. He is exactly where he should be.
Give the finest engineers alive a cow, a blank cheque, and one instruction: build a second one from scratch, the entire working machine, organs and microbes and all.
They will fail.
They can map every cell and still not reproduce the rumen: a warm fermentation reactor running on wild microbes nobody has to sterilise, that seeds itself, repairs itself, and digests the one material on the planet we cannot, turning a thornbush into a fillet.
They cannot match the power supply, which is rain. Or the fuel, which is grass nothing else will eat. Or the production line, which is the animal quietly building the next animal at no cost and asking no one's permission.
It improves the soil it stands on. It carries no patent, no firmware, no subscription. It has been in continuous production since before writing existed and has never once needed an update.
We keep calling it old, which is a peculiar insult to aim at the only food machine that has shipped a billion units and never lost in its category. The nearest competitor is a steel vat of slurry that drinks electricity and reports to a man with a clipboard.
Lightyears ahead, still, and grazing.