Fat

Oct. 19, 1997

I have little patience with the fat police -- dietary experts and columnists who won’t rest until almost every gram, no matter of what type, has been wrung out of their recipes and recommendations for the good life. Some fat, I agree, is absolutely vile and evil, but the intake of good fatty acids is necessary for health.

Let me tell you a story -- and no, I am not making this up.

Sixteen years ago, with the help of Adele Davis, a much ridiculed nutritionist, I and a whole lotta fat revived an absolutely pathetic old pup.

The spouse and I had taken a one-term job in an idyllic college town in the mountains of Tennessee, and the house we rented came with two cats and an aged Welsh Corgi. I was ecstatic about the cats, but cynophobia runs in my family, and the idea of sharing living quarters with any dog distressed and disgusted me. Ick.

But Becket (cq) wasn’t any dog -- he was one of the worst excuses for a dog we’d ever met. The sluggish little thing wheezed, snuffled , shivered, whined and was covered with eczema. He regarded the great outdoors, apparently, with even greater loathing -- it required standing up and moving. Becket oozed decrepitude.

Now this was exciting: The dog immediately called to mind a particularly dramatic description of a case of oil deficiency I’d read a number of years before in Davis’ “Let’s Eat Right to Keep Fit.” In our story, Davis is called in to look at the 18-month-old son of a former fashion model, who had shunned fat for years -- and of a dad who desperately wanted an athletic boy.

“This pathetic child was smaller than most one-year-old children,” Davis writes, “and had been covered with eczema since he was three weeks old. The boy was lethargic and seemed dim-witted.” She starts feeding the kid tablespoons of salad oil, and he perks up, electrified, and screams for more. He blooms into a normal, healthy boy. “If there is one man in this world who is willing to die for me,” Davis concludes, “it is probably this boy’s father.” Wotta story.

No problemo (sic) with a mere dog, I thought. We slupped in liberal quantities of oil on top of the dog’s long-standing and owner-prescribed diet of dry food. And he seemed to improve. Getting him to go outside to do whatever it is dogs do was no longer a trial and a tribulation for the spouse.

But then, Becket disappeared. And this was not fun, even for a cynophobe. We looked for him frantically, on foot and by car. In the process of calling his name over and over, we composed an anthem, begging the pup to come home.

Soon we were scum, at least in others’ eyes: After a few days, we got a call from a disapproving neighbor, who clearly thought our neglect -- or worse? -- had driven pitiful old Becket away from a house that was by rights his and not ours. She had seen him way up on campus, and she knew Becket wasn’t the type to go more than a few feet outdoors.

Becket wasn’t suffering at all, it turns out. We found him carousing with new furry friends and aggressively stealing such goodies as students would take out from their eating hall. Becket had gone from homebound invalid to jaunty dog-about-town. A low-rider, yes, but a sportster.

We coaxed him back and this time slathered him with affection to bind him to us. The three of us fell in love. But Becket looked good and we were low on oil, so we stopped giving it to him. A big mistake. Very quickly, he was sluggish and shivering again. We bought good, nonhydrogenated vegetable oil in jugs after that (no, not olive oil; nutritional science wasn’t that advanced in 1981) and made sure he got at least a couple of tablespoons a day.

And soon, we were no longer pariahs in the little town, for the story of our nutritional triumph, our resurrection of dear little Becket, spread. My husband and I taught the classics -- Greek and Latin -- but the best thing we did that semester was teach the glory that was grease.

And when his owners dropped by in April or May to pick up summer clothes, Becket’s vim and vigor stunned them. We were in a state of triumph.

When I explained about oil deficiency and its apparent effects, the woman almost wailed: “And he’d been like that for SIX YEARS.”
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When you buy prepared food, you’re likely to be paying good money for bad fat. No need to get hysterical, but read labels and ask questions, and above all, don’t overdo. Sometimes your body will tell you when you’ve been a wretch; when I’ve eaten potato chips, for example, and I love the miserable things, I can soon feel a thin but unpleasant layer of sticky goo build up on my skin.

When you’re at home, there’s no excuse to use shortening, margarine, processed cheese, hydrogenated or partially hydrogenated oils, hydrogenated peanut butter, mayo or whipped salad dressing in jars, and so on. You wanna feel bad? You wanna endanger yourself and your loved ones?

But you should consume a moderate amount of extra-virgin olive oil (first cold pressing!) and/or, where less flavor is a boon, canola (rapeseed) or peanut oil, cold-pressed if possible. (There are also sesame and walnut and other oils that come from foods that are naturally oily, so use them if you can afford them and are careful in storing them; I don’t associate oilyness with corn, however, or safflowers and the like, and so I don’t buy them.)

Working good oil into a menu is a no-brainer. I trust you know how to make a vinaigrette and pour it on a salad, or how to saute vegetables, or that you can put olive oil on pasta with freshly grated parmesan cheese. Don’t let anything swim in oil, but remember what happened to the Tin Woodman when he couldn’t get to his oil can.