Tag: nutrition

Discretionary Use Principle

The Discretionary Use Principle begins with a simple but demanding claim: tools are not inherently good or bad, but they become harmful when used without judgment, proportion, or purpose. Whether we are talking about food, technology, or media, the decisive factor is not purity but discretion—our ability to choose deliberately rather than reflexively. The principle rejects both absolutism and indulgence. It argues instead for a calibrated life, one that privileges nourishment over stimulation, depth over convenience, while still recognizing that modern life occasionally requires shortcuts. This framework is especially useful when thinking about analog versus digital living, where moralized categories often replace careful thinking.

It is wise to carve out a large, non-negotiable block of each day in which machines are politely but firmly excluded—no screens glowing like anxious faces, no notifications tugging at your sleeve, no algorithm whispering what to want next. Go hike where the trail refuses to optimize itself. Lift weights in a garage with nothing but an AM radio crackling like a distant campfire. Write dreams and grievances by hand in a clothbound notebook while Bach or Coltrane keeps time. This is the analog world, and it feeds parts of the nervous system that silicon cannot reach. In this sense, analog living resembles whole foods: salmon that still tastes like water and muscle, almonds that require chewing, blueberries that stain your fingers. The more time you spend here, the less bloated your spirit becomes. Digital life, by contrast, often behaves like ultra-processed food: frictionless, hyper-palatable, engineered for compulsive return, and strangely unsatisfying no matter how much you consume.

That analogy works—until it doesn’t. Not all analog living is virtuous, just as not all “whole foods” are benign when eaten without restraint. A steady diet of eggs, clotted cream, or beef heart can quietly undo you. Likewise, not all digital experience is junk. There are serious conversations on social platforms, lucid Substack essays, and educational YouTube channels that sharpen rather than dull attention. The mistake comes when we moralize categories instead of exercising judgment. Ultra-processed food is not a single moral villain; “processed” names a method, not a fate. Steel-cut oats, frozen berries, tofu, canned beans, and whole-grain bread are processed and still nutritionally intact. Even within the ultra-processed aisle, a minimally sweetened protein bar is not the same organism as a fluorescent snack cake designed to bypass satiety. The real danger is not processing itself but the familiar cartel of refined starches, added sugars, industrial fats, flavor engineering, and low nutritional payoff.

Seen through the Discretionary Use Principle, the lesson is neither to flee the digital world nor to surrender to it. Eat whole foods most of the time. Live analog for long, uninterrupted stretches. But do not shun all processed foods or digital tools out of misplaced virtue. Use them when discretion, efficiency, and purpose demand it. Health—nutritional or psychological—is not preserved by purity tests. It is preserved by attentiveness, proportion, and the ongoing discipline of choosing nourishment over convenience, again and again, without pretending that the choice will ever be automatic.

December 19, 2025
How to Shut Up a Yacht Critic: Feed Them Into Oblivion

My wife and I have been watching the current season of Below Deck Mediterranean and have been impressed with the consistent food preparation of the eccentric chef Josh Bingham. He stormed off the boat when one of the charter guests, Carlos, lectured Josh on his inferior vegan fare. Too much starch, not enough creativity, not enough this, not enough that. One of the excruciating pleasures of this show is watching people whose expectations run so high that they become obnoxious. They spent so much money, they feel entitled to push the chef and other crew members to extremes in order to justify the price of a premium yacht adventure.

Josh’s food on this charter looked disappointing, a melange of mediocrity. The meals had no identity. He was trying to please too many palates.

One thing occurred to me: There are always a few vegans who charter these yachts. Some are more fake than others. They want the vegan halo but not the vegan austerity. In other words, they want rich, decadent meals, just as inviting as steak and lobster. They crave butter-rich sauces, glazed proteins, and seductive textures, only delivered via tofu and oat milk so their consciences remain stainless.

Therefore, if I were Josh or any chef on one of these luxury yachts, I would have an emergency toolkit of go-to rich and decadent vegan meals. One that immediately comes to mind would be Thai peanut Satay with fried tofu and white rice. Serve it with Sichuan green beans and broccoli lacquered in sesame oil, give them some fresh sesame rolls dipped in olive oil and garlic, and that would surely shut them up and induce them into a long, satisfying nap.

If I were a chef on this show, I would want to create food so luxurious, decadent, and soothing, it would induce the charters into a deep sleep and thereby allow me and my fellow crew members to take a well-deserved break.

November 27, 2025
How Ultra-Processed Foods Turn Us Into Weight-Gain Machines

Julia Belluz and Kevin Hall’s essay “It’s Not You. It’s the Food.” explores the way the food industry changes our biology so that we are not at fault, in terms of a failure of moral strength or self-discipline, for our weight gain. Rather, ultraprocessed food is. Even if we try to shun the “toxic food environment,” we will find such a move difficult for several reasons. For one, what is “toxic food”? The government, at best, has given us a vague definition. Do we look to influencers? They’re trying to sell supplements more than health.

To make their point, the authors use this analogy: “If large swatches of the population were being sickened by a poison released from an industrial plant, no one would suggest that the solution is to just offer home filters, wearables, and supplements. The only real path to restoring health would have to include mandating the removal of the poison from the environment.”

The truth is simple, and it’s brutal: You’re on your own: You have to fight like hell to remove ultraprocessed foods from your diet. Kevin Hall’s study shows the more UPFs you eat, the more weight you gain. And the converse is true: The less UPFs you eat, the more weight you lose, especially fat and without effort.

The authors observe that when people move to America, they get fat. The common denominator is leaving a low UPFs country to a highly concentrated one. These immigrants get fat and suffer obesity-related diseases. So much for the American Dream.

Why are UPFs the villain? Because they mess with us–our biology, our hormones, our satiety signals, our gut biome. They turn us into Fat Machines.

In America’s rich UPF environment, 70% of available food calories “are deemed hyperpalatable and are in foods designed for the overconsumption that chronically sickens us. They’re also heavily marketed and cheap. Chronic disease hot spots are the most socioeconomically deprived, with food environments akin to toxic waste sites.”

Knowing the enemy before us, we have to ask ourselves: What do we do? The authors argue that self-discipline doesn’t cut it. We need government regulation. The problem is that we could be dead before anything gets done. Another problem is that the FDA and other institutions don’t seem to have a handle on sound health these days, and even if they did, they’ve lost the trust of the public, many of whom like to cherry-pick their information inside their social media silos.

Nevertheless, the authors are adamant about this point: UPFs that “can drive overconsumption should be treated as recreational substances to which we must apply aggressive tax policies, front-of-pack warning labels, marketing restrictions and more, especially for foods marketed to children.”

Notice the authors didn’t say all UPFs, only the ones designed for overconsumption. Some processed foods such as canned beans, high-protein, flax-seed whole-grain bread, liquid egg whites, and whey protein powder should be spared such government labels.

Should we wait for the government to help us in this regard? Probably not. Researcher Kevin Hill quit the N.I.H. after his UPFs studies were censored by the current administration. Not surprisingly, money is a big factor. The authors point out that the global food industry is worth $8 trillion, more than the oil and gas industry. There’s a lot of skin in the game for lobbyists who fund a plethora of politicians.

But the science is out: We’re not at fault for our fatness. Food Inc., which makes 70% of their food hyperpalatable for overconsumption to line their pockets, bears much of the blame. Also, failure of government leadership.

Brace yourself: Regardless of your economic status, you’re on your own. No one is going to save you. Eating in America is the Wild Wild West.

November 23, 2025
Not All Ultra-Processed Foods Are Alike

New Yorker writer Dhruv Khullar opens “Why Is the American Diet So Deadly?” with a truth so obvious it ought to be printed on cereal boxes: Americans are eating themselves into an early grave. No other nation can match our national pride in oversized portions, recreational snacking, and ultra-processed food engineered to hit the brain the way a slot machine hits a Vegas tourist. When the rest of the world wants a modest meal, Americans want something that triggers the dopamine cannon.

Enter Guillaume Raineri, a French transplant who arrived in Maryland when his wife took a job at the National Institutes of Health. In an earnest attempt to understand American nutrition, he enrolled in a paid diet study—essentially voluntarily entering a culinary escape room. For four weeks, he lived in a controlled environment, eating three meals a day totaling about two thousand calories per meal.

Weekdays were gentle on the palate: minimal processing, plenty of whole foods. Fridays, however, were an ambush—UPF theme nights featuring chicken nuggets and PB&J sandwiches, the American sacrament. Raineri’s body protested immediately: bloating, sluggishness, the kind of malaise that suggests your bloodstream is pleading for diplomatic immunity.

When Khullar visited, study designer Kevin Hall explained the challenge: lumping all ultra-processed foods together is like putting canned kidney beans and gummy bears in the same moral category. Food processing yields genuine benefits—less spoilage, wider availability, and the ability to feed millions at scale—but conflating all UPFs blurs important distinctions. Nutrition heavyweight Walter Willett argues that the focus shouldn’t be on UPFs as a monolith but on overall dietary patterns, especially those rooted in plant-forward whole foods and Mediterranean sensibilities. The core question Hall explores is simple but unsettling: why do people, consciously or unconsciously, eat more when given UPFs?

The findings aren’t comforting. Participants consuming UPFs ate about 500 more calories a day, experienced spikes in glucose and insulin, and gained weight. Whole-food diets did the opposite: reduced intake, increased satiety, healthier hormone profiles. This complicates the simplistic calories-in/calories-out theory that refuses to die, despite evidence showing that food quality shapes metabolism, hunger hormones, and how our bodies store energy. As Tufts nutrition dean Dariush Mozaffarian puts it, “The dirty little secret is that no one really knows what caused the obesity epidemic”—which becomes even more maddening when you realize Americans now consume slightly fewer calories than they did decades ago, yet obesity continues to climb. GLP-1 drugs may soon rewrite this script entirely.

UPFs introduce another sinister twist: they don’t just fill our stomachs, they remodel our biology. They recalibrate taste receptors, blunt satiety signals, and create a psychological and physiological FOMO for even more snacks, flavors, and novelty. Some studies, like Willett’s more granular approach, show that UPFs behave differently depending on additives—some beneficial, some neutral, some metabolic chaos grenades.

And yet, none of this complexity prevents Americans from gorging on the worst offenders. Doritos, the poster child of engineered hedonism, sell more than a billion bags a year. When you calculate how many collective years of life are sacrificed for that neon-orange dust, you realize our species is perfectly capable of choosing pleasure over longevity.

Meanwhile, Food Inc. behaves exactly like Big Tech: both industries manufacture addictive junk because attention and appetite are profitable. Social media mirrors the food system: endless junk content, engineered outrage, and influencers who peddle easy purity. YouTube is now overrun by self-anointed nutrition gurus who command you to eat only whole foods and flee all processing. With algorithms breathing down their necks, they don’t dare utter anything nuanced—like the fact that UPFs come in subcategories, some nourishing, some harmless, some devastating. Nuance doesn’t get clicks. Absolutism does.

November 22, 2025
Against Becoming a Whole Food Absolutist

I admonish my teen daughters for their “high school” diet–80% of which is ultra-processed. I tell them to learn to prepare and enjoy whole foods, and as I speak these words, I can feel a self-righteous halo glowing over my head. My rectitude is rooted in my knowledge that whole foods are more dense, nutritious and fibrous than processed foods, and as a result whole foods help us achieve satiety–the word for feeling full, an important condition to help us avoid overeating.

The problem, however, with self-recitude, is that it can encourage us to become absolutists, zealous, and true believers who drink our own Kool-Aid with such relish that we fail to see how blind and rigid we have become. As whole food absolutists, we may find that our worldview and lifestyle doesn’t align with reality.

This misalignment is discussed in Olga Khazan’s essay “Avoiding Ultra-Processed Foods Is Completely Unrealistic.” The title is followed by the parenthetical “Especially if you have kids.”

As a health reporter, Khazan interrogates her own food choices for her son, some of which she understands will be questionable: peanut-butter puffs, grape-jelly Uncrustables sandwich, mixed-berry oat bites–all ultra-processed.

She understands that “hyperpalatable” Ultra-Processed Foods (UPFs) are linked to obesity, glucose spikes, insulin resistance, type 2 diabetes, and other afflictions so serious that UPFs should be treated like cigarettes and labeled with surgeon general warnings.

In light of UPF’s dangers, Khazan observes there is a myriad of health mommy influencers making videos on how to make your own healthy versions of goldfish crackers and chicken nuggets and how to prepare toothsome steamed cauliflower and carrot salad for your toddlers.

In this aspirational world, preparing whole foods may give us bragging rights, but it doesn’t align with the real world: Getting stuff done. When you consider how busy a working parent is in our ultra-competitive Hunger Games society, you realize that taking the time to prepare whole foods is an opportunity cost: Yes, you made homemade goldfish crackers, but you didn’t have time to go to the dry cleaners, drop off a return package of undersized garments to Temu, and stand in line at the pharmacy to pick up your medications. In other words, when you’re living in the real world, you have to capitulate to some UPFs regardless of the fitness mommies wagging their scolding fingers at you.

But Khazan points out that all this food shaming is making us fail to see the complexity of the ultra-processed food category, which is “too broad and difficult” for us to understand. Bran flakes and candy bars are both considered UPFs, but are they equal? Tofu is often categorized as a UPF, but is it really? Is soy milk bad for you in the same way sugary soda is? In other words, can we put all UPFs in the same category?

To complicate UPFs further, some are even good for you, including some yogurts, breads, and breakfast cereals. Additionally, some people have food restrictions, because of special dietary needs and food allergies, and their health benefits from some UPFs in their diet. For example, I use Splenda and liquid stevia for my coffee and tea, and my insulin thanks me for it.

The Shaming Whole Food Mommies should stop wagging their fingers for another reason: Being a parent entails unexpected crises that create time-management problems, which can only be solved with a quick meal, such as putting chicken nuggets in the toaster-oven. To make whole foods palatable can take several hours of preparation. Unless you’re rich and home all day, the time required for this type of preparation may elude you.

We’re not just talking about the time to prepare whole foods. We’re talking about cognitive drain. The amount of mental energy to bake chicken nuggets and a plate of celery stalks smeared with peanut butter is infinitesimal compared to prepping for chicken Tikka masala over basmati rice followed by cleaning ten times more dishes than microwaving a quick meal.

If you’re rich and you can spend time shopping in the morning and the rest of the day in the luxury of your spacious, state-of-the art home, you have the money, time, and cognitive energy to make tasty whole food dishes. Congratulations, you’re a member of the one percent. The rest of us have to work for a living. Unlike you, we’ve got chicken nuggets in the freezer for emergencies.

Have we even talked about the cost of whole foods vs. UPFs? A jar of organic pasta sauce cost more than double the one larded with high-fructose corn syrup. The same goes for salsa, nut butters, tomato sauce, pesto, bone broth, and the list goes on.

The Whole Foods Mommy Influencers shamelessly lard us with toxic positivity to “educate” us on healthy eating, but what they’re really doing is a muscle flex–showing us how great their lives are and wanting us to suffer FOMO because we don’t have their time and resources. They’re rubbing our noses in their glorious lifestyle knowing deep down that we don’t have the time and resources to join their rarified tribe. They’re more toxic than a case of UPFs.

A saner approach is simple: choose your battles. Cook whole meals when you can. Use common sense. Avoid the truly catastrophic diet—the frappuccino-and-bear-claw lifestyle that leads straight to endocrinological ruin. And when you inevitably reach for a UPF shortcut, don’t flagellate yourself or watch a Mommy Influencer video for penance. Just eat, breathe, and move on. The real world is hard enough without adding shame to the grocery bill.

November 22, 2025
Raising Teens in the Age of Doritos and Doom

In Food Intelligence, Julia Belluz and Kevin Hall deliver a bleak data point: since 2018, ultra-processed foods—UPFs, the junk with marketing degrees—account for 60 percent of the calories consumed by American adults and nearly two-thirds of what children eat. These edible Frankensteins are now being linked to depression, type 2 diabetes, and early-onset colorectal cancer.

I have twin daughters in high school who live on donuts, chips, energy drinks, and iced coffees that taste like dessert in a cup. This is their food pyramid of joy. I tread carefully: I don’t want to sound like a puritan in a lab coat or a prophet of intestinal doom. I just want to help without becoming the household killjoy.

But what is “helpful” when their entire social ecosystem runs on UPFs? If I had to guess, 75 percent of their peer group’s calories come from things that never met a farm or field. Processed food isn’t just addictive—it’s tribal. Sharing snacks is a social contract; refusing one is like rejecting friendship itself.

Convincing teenagers to stop eating UPFs is about as effective as warning them about “too much screen time.” They’ll nod politely, roll their eyes invisibly, and continue scrolling while demolishing a bag of Flamin’ Hot somethings. Still, I’ll try. I’ll cite the studies, stock the fridge with hummus, guacamole, nut butters, whole-grain crackers, chickpea puffs, trail mix, and protein shakes—an arsenal of virtue they’ll likely ignore.

Because youth isn’t about balance or moderation. It’s about belonging—through food, fashion, memes, and caffeine. Their need for connection will always outweigh my nutritional sermons. So I’ll do what I can: lay out the facts, offer alternatives, and accept that fighting pop culture is a noble but largely hopeless act of parental theater.

November 14, 2025
Among the Sprout People

I’ve been a bodybuilder since 1974, which means I’ve spent half a century haunting health food stores. Not the modern corporate ones with sterile aisles and soothing playlists, but the old-school mom-and-pop operations run by barefoot idealists and tense, caffeine-free librarians who smelled faintly of patchouli and moral superiority.

Those stores had a bouquet unlike any other—a humid cloud of brewer’s yeast, carob dust, desiccated liver tablets, toasted wheat germ, and stale bran, all marinated in tea tree oil and valerian root. Mix it together and you got the unmistakable scent of loneliness and intestinal distress.

The shelves sagged with mimeographed books from obscure presses, all preaching salvation through sprouts, tofu, and lentils. Reading them, you understood the subtext: renounce pleasure, annoy everyone, and either die alone or join a small cult where everyone smells faintly of alfalfa and martyrdom.

In the back corner sat the “Alternative Reading” section—dog-eared manifestos about conspiracies, telepathy, UFOs, and energy vortices. These weren’t health stores; they were secular monasteries for the over-enlightened and under-medicated.

Most shoppers weren’t buying vitamins—they were buying deliverance. They came searching for answers: to their chronic bloating, their failed relationships, their career detours, their lingering sense that the world had been designed without them in mind. They were pilgrims in pursuit of absolutes, desperate to turn meaninglessness into a smoothie.

I often tried to avoid eye contact. The vibes were heavy, like wet hemp. They looked at me—broad shoulders, protein powder in hand—and saw a defector. In their eyes, I wasn’t a fellow seeker; I was a pragmatic muscle robot looking for more bioavailable amino acids. They, meanwhile, communed with chlorophyll and cosmic vibrations.

In that ecosystem, I was the natural enemy: a bodybuilder. My very existence refuted their gospel. My muscles were proof of a material world they’d spent decades trying to transcend through spirulina and good intentions.

These days, I skip the incense and buy my protein online. It’s efficient, impersonal, and utterly free of judgment—mine or theirs. They can keep chasing transcendence through powdered algae; I’ll settle for FedEx and 160 grams of protein a day. Somewhere, they’re still sniffing valerian root and waiting for the universe to text them back.

November 12, 2025
Have I Gone Overboard with My Protein Obsession?

Five nights ago, I dreamed I was trapped at a houseboat party. The decks heaved with music and laughter; people swayed, bottles clinked, lights shimmered across the water. Somewhere between the bass thump and the spray of cheap champagne, I decided it was time to save everyone. I climbed onto a railing and began lecturing on the virtues of a high-protein diet.

The crowd ignored me. The more I shouted about the glory of amino acids, the louder the DJ turned the volume. My words scattered across the lake like crumbs for fish. I tried compromise—lowering the daily requirement from 200 grams to 120—but no one cared. Eventually, hoarse and defeated, I realized I’d become a mad prophet of whey protein, screaming into the void. When I woke, I asked myself the obvious question: Had I gone overboard on my protein obsession?

That question lingered until this morning, when I read Julia Belluz and Kevin Hall’s Food Intelligence: Protein, the “Only True Nutrient.” They argue that our worship of protein is centuries old. In 1853, a Parisian newspaper mocked vegetarians as gaunt weaklings too frail to walk out of a restaurant unaided. A hundred years later, Arnold’s gospel of 250 grams a day turned protein into a civic duty for gym rats. Now, with Google searches and supplement sales hitting record highs—an industry worth $28 billion—protein has become both religion and racket. Everyone preaching its holiness seems to be selling tubs of it.

Protein has always been marketed as a competitive edge: animal protein supposedly bestows power, plant protein supposedly punishes you with mediocrity. Yet Belluz and Hall dismantle this myth. Plant eaters, they write, can easily get all essential amino acids from a diverse diet—no powders, no “meat extract,” no panic required.

Even more humbling, they admit that no one actually knows the optimal daily dose. Our bodies, they say, have a built-in governor called “protein leverage,” which drives us to crave roughly what we need. Too little protein and we lose muscle, which shortens life. Too much—especially at the expense of a balanced diet—and we hasten the same end. Somewhere between the extremes lies the sweet spot, but it’s not a round number you can print on a supplement label.

That answer frustrated me. I like numbers. I like goals. “More” has always felt safer than “enough.” Reading their chapter, I remembered the summer of 1978, when I was sixteen and backstage with Mr. Universe Mike Mentzer before his posing exhibition set to 2001: A Space Odyssey. I asked how much protein he ate. “About a hundred grams,” he said, barely looking up from his shake. I was stunned. Arnold had taught us to eat at least 250.

“Why not more?” I asked. Mentzer shrugged. “It’ll just make you fat.” Then, with equal candor, he mentioned his steroid stack—Deca-Durabolin included. Even then I could tell: genetics, not shakes, were the true miracle. At five-foot-eight and 225 pounds, he was carved from marble, but it was marble under pressure. He died of heart failure at 49, just five miles from where I live.

Now I’m 64, taking in 180 grams a day and wondering if I’ve turned protein into a creed. I’m strong for my age but heavier than I’d like. Maybe the excess that built my muscle also built my burden. That houseboat dream feels less like absurdity and more like warning. It’s time to stop shouting about protein and start listening—to appetite, to reason, and maybe to the quiet voice reminding me that balance, not bulking, is the real art form.

November 11, 2025
Why Willpower Can’t Save You from the Snack Aisle

After hearing something thoughtful interviews with journalist Julia Belluz and scientist Kevin Hall about their new book Food Intelligence: The Science of How Food Both Nourishes and Harms Us and KCRW food expert Evan Kleinman praise the book, I broke down and decided to see if the authors had any new insights into the exploration of what I call humans’ mismanagement of eating. The book begins on a promising note: The authors observe that in the animal kingdom, we are hard-wired with “food intelligence,” a natural-born instinct to regulate the quantity of what we eat and to target foods that our body craves for optimal nutrition. Our instinctive connection with food went haywire in the twentieth century: “Many of us started to eat too much, and the wrong things, even when we didn’t want to. Obesity rates began rising, first in rich, Western, industrialized countries such as the United States, then elsewhere.” Between 1980 and today, the obesity rate has doubled in several countries. Seventy percent of American adults and a third of U.S. children are classified as overweight or obese. Obesity-related diseases such as type 2 diabetes kills over half a million Americans a year. Obesity-related health costs are in the trillions.

One of the major reasons for this breakdown in our instinctive hardwiring to naturally eat well is our disconnection from food: how it’s grown, produced, and cooked. We are now addicted to factory-produced fat, sugar, and salt.

Shaming and the gospel of self-discipline doesn’t help even though, as the authors point out, the wellness industry points an accusatory finger at our own moral shortcomings (lack of willpower, gluttony, and sloth) for our failures at weight management. The diet industries, the authors claim, are asking the wrong questions when they ask what is the best diet and how people can lose weight. For example, there are influencers who say low-carb is the best, but the authors show studies that contradict that claim. Low-carb diets are no better than low-fat ones in the long-term. The authors argue that championing the so-called ultimate diet is not the right question. Instead, the more helpful question is this: “Why do we eat what we eat?” Their obsession with answering this question is what propelled them to write the book.

The authors explain the problem of calories-in, calories-out as a surefire model for weight loss. The model is complicated and eventually sabotaged by the way the body reacts when we reduce calories. The metabolism slows down, we burn fewer calories doing the same exercise than we did initially, and our hunger signals rebel and scream “Eat more!” Contrary to the cheery claims of the wellness industry, eating less and exercising more usually fails within a year.

A more promising approach to weight management is avoiding ultra-processed foods. The more of these foods we eat, the less we are able to regulate our appetite, resulting in “a calorie glut” and weight-gain hell. But becoming food literature, replacing processed foods with whole foods, and learning to enjoy this exchange requires time and resources, which are lacking in many. Convenience and cost drive many Americans to processed food. Therefore, “the root causes” of obesity are structural. In the words of the authors: “It was never about us as individuals. Our food environment is wrecking us.” Our food environment is rewriting our brains to make us consume a calorie glut. Therefore, the food environment is making us overweight, sick, and unhappy. It is killing us.

Don’t consult Food Intelligence for the simple call to eat like your great-grandmother did. Even that sentiment is based on myth, the authors point out. Your great-grandmother may have spent endless hours in the kitchen exhausted while struggling “with hunger and nutrient shortfalls.”

One of the book’s objectives is to show how “old, unproven ideas and outdated policies continue to guide our current thinking and approaches to food.” They make it clear early on that they won’t be pushing this or that diet or even promoting “clean eating.” If you’re looking for food puritanism, then look elsewhere. Kevin Hall admits to eating ultra-processed food and Julia Belluz admits to eating too much sugar. This book is not so much about rigid prescriptions as much as helping you change from a mindless eater to an intelligent one.

November 9, 2025
The Aesthetic Pharmaceutical Complex (a College Essay Prompt)
Write a 1,700-word argumentative essay that evaluates this claim: GLP-1 weight-loss drugs (e.g., Ozempic/Wegovy) offer a Faustian bargain–they blunt appetite and deliver rapid results, but at significant cultural, moral, and social costs. Examine whether these drugs simply cure an individual problem or whether they reshape appetite, pleasure, gender and marital dynamics, class inequality, body aesthetics, and personal agency in ways that should alarm us.

Use Rebecca Johns (“A Diet Writer’s Regrets”), Johann Hari (“A Year on Ozempic…”), Harriet Brown (“The Weight of the Evidence”), Sandra Aamodt (“Why You Can’t Lose Weight on a Diet”), and at least two additional reputable sources of your choice. Address both sides: acknowledge the medical benefits (for diabetes, metabolic disease, disability reduction) while testing the claim that GLP-1s amount to a societal deal with the devil — trading desire, culinary culture, and autonomy for narrow aesthetic and market outcomes.

Be sure to define terms (e.g., “Faustian bargain,” “GLP-1 drugs,” “body aesthetics”), offer evidence, and include a clear counterargument and rebuttal.

Five Sample Thesis Statements (with mapping components)
1. Thesis 1
  GLP-1 drugs are a Faustian bargain: they deliver rapid weight loss and metabolic benefit, but they also erode culinary pleasure, exacerbate social inequality, and replace disciplined habits with pharmaceutical dependence.
- Mapping: (1) immediate medical and psychological benefits, (2) cultural costs to food and pleasure, (3) social/economic consequences and dependence.
1. Thesis 2
  While GLP-1 medications can rescue lives in a clinical sense, their mainstreaming industrializes thinness—privileging aesthetics over health, amplifying economic divides, and outsourcing self-control to corporations and prescribers.
- Mapping: (1) clinical life-saving benefits, (2) commercialization of body aesthetics, (3) economic and ethical fallout.
1. Thesis 3
  GLP-1 drugs pose an ethical dilemma: they promise to erase cravings and curb addiction, but in doing so they risk flattening human desire, unsettling intimate relationships, and converting a public-health problem into a luxury aesthetic market.
- Mapping: (1) pharmacological suppression of appetite, (2) impact on relationships and social life, (3) marketization and inequality.
1. Thesis 4
  The rise of GLP-1s reframes weight management from moral failing to medicalized consumerism—undeniable benefits for some masked by troubling costs: cultural loss, shifting marital dynamics, and a dangerous dependence on biotech fixes.
- Mapping: (1) medical reframing of obesity, (2) cultural and interpersonal costs, (3) risks of technological dependence.
1. Thesis 5
  GLP-1 drugs give individuals the power to silence hunger, but that power comes tethered to troubling social outcomes: it amplifies privilege, intensifies pressure for aesthetic conformity, and weakens the role of habit and self-discipline in healthy living.
- Mapping: (1) appetite suppression and individual gains, (2) exacerbation of aesthetic and class pressure, (3) erosion of habit-based agency.
Counterargument (fair, strong):
Proponents of GLP-1 drugs argue that calling them a “Faustian bargain” ignores the very real medical and social benefits these medications deliver. For many patients—especially those with type 2 diabetes, obesity-related hypertension, or mobility-limiting weight—GLP-1s reduce blood sugar, lower cardiovascular risk, and unlock functional gains that years of dieting could not. Early reports also show improvements in mood, self-efficacy, and social participation: when chronic hunger is quieted, people can exercise more, sleep better, and engage with life instead of being consumed by food preoccupation. From this perspective, the drugs restore agency rather than remove it; they are tools that expand options for people trapped by biology, food environments, and limited access to behavioral medicine. To label them morally corrosive risks stigmatizing patients who finally find relief.

Rebuttal:
That claim deserves respect—but it doesn’t dissolve the deeper social harms that mainstreaming GLP-1s threatens to produce. Medicine can relieve individual suffering while simultaneously reshaping culture in ways that reward aesthetic conformity and widen inequality: when a pharmaceutical becomes the fastest route to thinness, weight status shifts further from a health metric to a marketable badge of status, attainable first by those with money, time, and prescriber access. The drugs also substitute biochemical fixes for social solutions—affordable nutritious food, safer neighborhoods for exercise, workplace protections—that address root causes of metabolic disease; this medicalization risks absolving policymakers and corporations of responsibility. Finally, the long-term psychosocial costs are real: appetite suppression can blunt pleasure and disrupt food’s role as social glue, and couples who diverge in access to these drugs face novel tensions over desirability, divided resources, and identity. In short, GLP-1s can be miracles for patients; they can also be catalysts for cultural and economic shifts that deserve critical scrutiny before we call the bargain a fair trade.
September 21, 2025