Age Limits On The PB&J? Sacrebleu!

Joe Pisani, a new pen pal, and I recently swapped emails about the succulent joys and variabilities of that great American sweet and salty sandwich, the PB&J.

A retired newspaper editor, Joe recently wrote a column bemoaning his wife's arguments against consuming this notable American fare, determining, in her infinite wisdom, that he was too old for it. 

I wondered why anyone would suggest a sandwich, especially one as innocent as peanut butter and jelly, had an age limit for consumption. When does that kick in? 40? 50? 60? I'm not sure. Maybe we need to issue fake IDs – which states we’re younger than we are – so we can continue to eat these things well into our dotage.

After reading his column, I emailed him, saying that if her opposition continues, he should inform her that he's heading out for a Big Mac and fries.

 

"That'll make your PB&J look like health food," I wrote. 

 

And then, I added what I figured could be the coup de grace: "Tell her the PB&J is plant-based."

 

There are studies – from the University of Michigan no less – suggesting the PB&J could lengthen your life by more than 30 minutes. Compare that to the hotdog. It might shorten your life by the same amount of time.

 

Since these two delectables go hand-in-hand with American culture and identity, perhaps we need a follow-up study to determine if consuming both simultaneously negates the nocent effects of the hotdog. 

 

From what I can tell, health authorities aren't advocating for a moratorium on consuming PB&Js – at any age. They suggest, instead, using jelly without added sugar and whole-grain bread. There don't appear to be any guidelines on peanut butter, but those same authorities note it's low in saturated fat, making it a better choice than a hotdog, a hamburger, or that roast beef sandwich you may crave.

 

I always found the PB&J a joy, both in my youth, when I brought one to school daily, and, at times, during my professional career. It offers sanctuary from adult issues and pressing management problems – deadlines, revenue, profits, and occasional personnel problems.

 

My favorite way to make one is to smother one slice of whole-wheat bread with grape jam and another with creamy peanut butter. To add extra spark, I lay down a thick carpeting of butter before swiping the creamy peanut butter over it on the same slice of bread. 

 

Of course, my doctor threw a hissy upon learning about this, so, at his urging, I changed my ways. Now, the sandwich consists only of organic jam and peanut butter made with less salt and sugar – and, of course, organic, whole-grain bread. 

 

This latest version is a far cry from those dicey days when I gambled with fate. But there are times when we’re called to protect ourselves against ourselves.

 

What brings about the sandwich’s popularity?

The military, of course. 

 

The U.S. Army says the PB&J gained a foothold on the American palate starting with the Doughboys fighting in France during World War I; the National Peanut Board says the sandwich became part of the rations for U.S. military personnel during the next world war. And The Saturday Evening Post reports there are estimates suggesting “the average American” will consume about 3,000 PB&Js during their lifetime. 

Like many American sandwiches, and Americans themselves, the PB&J is malleable. Over the years, I've learned some enjoy pickles on theirs while others adorn their PB&Js with freshly sliced fruit. The combinations are likely endless for this great American sandwich.

 

So, make it any way you want. And remember – short of slathering it with butter, ham or some other animal protein, it's plant-based – and might even extend your life by 30 minutes!

 

Good luck, Joe!

The doctor and The Disease

Infectious diseases – Ebola, AIDS, even the Flu – are always worrisome. 

My background includes covering the early days of AIDS, back in the 1983, when it was breaking out across New York City, as a young reporter that summer for United Press International.

Few understood the disease.  Was it limited to the gay community?  Was it only happening to people who had blood transfusions?  No one knew.

In an attempt to dampen public fear of donating blood, New York City Mayor Ed Koch, in a very public piece of showmanship, donated blood, showing that if he could survive the process, so could anyone else.

I interviewed the executive director of New York’s Blood Bank about whether donations were the same or down due to this new fangled disease.

“I’m getting a lot of interesting phone calls,” he said.

“Really.  What kind of calls,” I asked.

“I’m not really sure I should say.  I’m a pretty modest guy,” he said.

“I am, too, so you can tell me,” I said.

“Well, this one lady said she and her husband practice anal and oral sex, and she wanted to know if they were at risk of getting AIDS,” he said.

“What did you tell her,” I asked.

 “As long as the sexual activity was only between them, they were fine,” he said.

Needless to say, that didn’t make it out across the wire that day. 

But the story about the guy who walked into a bank one Saturday morning, holding it up by saying he had AIDS, did.  The teller was so petrified of the disease, she handed him every dollar she could find. 

Given how we live in the United States, it's highly unlikely anyone would come near Ebola.  While we're prone to shaking hands, we tend to keep our physical contact with others to a minimum.

That's not so much the case in West Africa, where, from what I read, locals hug the dead, even those who died of Ebola, which then puts the living at risk of coming down with the disease. 

And, unlike the Flu, Ebola isn’t an airborne disease.

The larger issue we’re facing in the United States is the example a nurse or doctor provides – especially to the rest of us who aren’t medical workers – when they refuse to be quarantined because they may have been exposed to Ebola. 

Yes, medical workers have rights.  But they also have an obligation.  And that's to demonstrate concern for a community's overall health.

So, yes, nurses and doctors, who've done a fantastic service in Africa, should be quarantined.  I don't know if it needs to be for 21 days, but they should show the same amount of concern for their fellow Americans' health as they have for those in Africa.

A nurse I know, who works at a local hospital, tells disturbing stories but what's really bothersome are the ones of her fellow healthcare workers. 

They have no qualms about eating fat-laden, cholesterol-rich foods, like cheeseburgers.  Seriously, why aren’t these people taking the advice their industry hands out – to work out and be careful what they eat?

Medical workers, I’m beginning to believe, are just like journalists – they’re arrogant!  The rules don’t apply to them.

So if I were advising Kaci Hickox, the nurse in Maine upset about being quarantined, I’d tell her to tone down her cries about her civil rights and, instead, increase her time being an example of someone concerned not only about her health but also that of her fellow citizens. 

But maybe in this age of one person’s rights superseding everyone else's, that's too much to expect, even from those who should know better.

That useless brain

Why ask why? 

For those old enough to remember, that was the question posed

in a television commercial in a bygone era, and one that should

be asked again today.

But the problem with asking why is that it presupposes you’ll

actually think.

And, hey, why do that? 

It’s so much easier to follow the crowd.

That’s what Holman W. Jenkins Jr., writes about in one of his latest

columns in The Wall Street Journal. (http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424127887324634304578539453974685238.html)

That journalism suffers from a lack of mental dexterity or that

people are more easily swayed by their emotions or habits they

picked up from their parents and ancestors– anything but their brains!

– in deciding their votes or other important issues should come as no surprise.

After all, if your parents were Democrats, you’ll likely be one, too;

the same goes for Republicans. 

Religious beliefs are similar.  If you were brought up Catholic, you’ll

likely be one as an adult; and the same holds for every other religion.

It’s easy to simplify problems.  All we need is demon and a solution.

The fact that medical care is expensive is the demon.  The easy

solution – as brought to us by Congress and President Obama -- is to

make health insurance affordable and, thus, accessible to all. 

The fact that healthcare, as provided by the doctors and

the nurses, might suffer is not something you should think about.

And, whatever you do, don’t think about basic economics and the

fact that, at any time, you introduce a third-party payer – as the

current health care system is set up – the provider of any service,

medical care included, is given the ability to raise their prices, thereby

making healthcare unaffordable to anyone who doesn’t buy a

health insurance policy.

Or the fact that insurance companies, forced to cover any and

all illnesses, might compel some doctors to leave the system so

they're able to only accept private money for their services

isn’t something you should worry about either.  

The easier thing, instead, is to go along with the people who have

a complication to solve the complication.  It comes to us as the

Affordable Care Act, which, essentially, sells us to the health

insurance industry. 

Which means, other than allowing you to buy health insurance,

nothing’s been resolved.

But don’t think about that.

A better solution – if someone really wanted to lower the

doctors’ fees, hospital prices and drug prices – would have

been to eliminate insurance companies.

But that would have been too radical.

And since you’re struggling with basic thinking, Senators,

Members of Congress and the President know you can’t

handle hard solutions that require arduous thinking.

If everyone in the healthcare industry was forced to compete on

price – like the car companies are – drugs and doctor visits

wouldn’t cost nearly as much. 

Sure, there would some high-priced doctors and hospitals just like

there are high-priced cars and houses.  Those on the high end

would sell better service.

At the lowest tier, doctors charging far less would offer economy care.

And most doctors would likely fall somewhere in the middle for things

like physicals and urgent care.

But, hey, why think? 

It’s so much easier to leave that to someone else.

Swimming toward the target

A friend of mine called recently to say he was going in for a vasectomy. After giving life a lot of thought, he and his fiancé decided children aren’t in the cards.

His story reminded me of an entirely different time in my life. My wife and I were attempting to conceive our first born and we were experiencing difficulties.

So, like my friend, I decided to take control of the situation and consult the medical authorities.

That was the easy part of the decision. Making the appointment to see my doctor was an entirely different story.

“Why do you want to see the doctor,” the receptionist asked.

None of your damn business I wanted to say. But that’s just not an appropriate way to speak to someone if you need an appointment presto pronto.

“Oh, I just need to see the doctor,” I replied. Ordinarily these things don’t faze me. But in this case, since we were discussing things south of my belly button, I just couldn’t bring myself to be so open.

“Again, what are you coming in for,” she continued.

“I’m not telling you. And it won’t take long,” I said.

“The doctor won’t like this,” she said. As if I cared.

A few days later I found myself in my doctor’s examination room.

“So what’s up,” he said upon entering the room.

I explained the problem. And rather than suggest to my wife that she see a doctor, implying somehow that this situation was her fault – not mine, of course – I told the doctor we should start with me. So what do we do, I asked.

The great thing about this guy is that he’s able to break down complicated medical terms into language we can all understand.

“We need to find out if you’ve got enough swimmers,” he said. “And then we need to know if they can swim.”

That was an interesting way of putting it. And how do we do this, I inquired.

“Easy. We refer you to a clinic where you give a sample.”

That’s a breeze, I thought. Just go to some sterile medical clinic, by myself, and, uh, well, uh, you know, uh, uh-oh. What have I gotten myself into?

Yikes!!!!!

I’d only done that, you know, in private. So the mere thought of doing you know in a quasi-public place was enough for me to ask my doctor for some Viagra – JUST FOR THIS ONE TIME.

Don’t sweat it, the doctor said. There will be more than enough magazines and videos to get me through this exercise. How did he know, I wondered.

The next thing to do was to call the clinic. I forget its name but it was something like “The Clinic to Make Sure You’re Packing a Wallop.”

After taking down the necessary information from me, the receptionist at Packing a Wallop inquired when I’d like to stop by.

I inquired about the following Wednesday. That was just fine, she said. And then she issued an edict:

“No sex for three days before this appointment.”

“Okay,” I mumbled.

The Big Day arrived. And I was a little nervous, to say the least.

My wife was on a business trip on this particular day. And I was wondering if that wasn’t a mistake. Maybe she should have been there. That would have made this exercise easier.

I thought about calling a few women I knew to see if they’d join me on this event. But then I reconsidered. They’d probably turn me down anyway. And the clinic might have rules. Besides, I thought, that would be like Bill Clintoning this whole exercise.

Is it sex? Isn’t it sex? Those were more questions than I could handle. So forget that idea.

I put on stiff upper lip and made my way to the clinic – alone.

The first thing I noticed in the clinic was a picture gracing the lobby’s wall of a lone, very determined looking sperm. It must have been magnified 5,000 times, maybe more. I suspected it was to reinforce to all those entering Packing a Wallop what they were suppose to do during their visit. Drop off a sample!

The next thing I noticed was the receptionist. She was a hot looking Latina. Maybe her looks were part of the clinic’s plan. Look at her, they figure, and things will happen.

I checked in with her and she asked if I was ready.

“I guess.”

I was ushered into a room. I’m not sure what the room is called. It’s not exactly an examination room. Maybe it’s a play room.

I don’t know what they call that room, but it was packed with more pornography, movies included, than I’d ever seen in one place.

Now I’m not exactly a prude; for that matter, I’m not innocent either. I’ve bought my fair share of porn.

But this was something else. The shelves were staked with huge quantities of magazines and movies.

The doctor was right. There were more than enough magazines to pull me through this exercise.

I thought about asking the receptionist to stick around. If she could just stand there, naked, this would have been so much easier. And, hey, I wouldn’t have touched her. That would have defeated the exercise.

But then I thought about Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky and dismissed the idea.

She closed the door behind her and, suddenly, I was alone.

What the hell, I thought, let’s check out the movies. And that’s when I learned I just might be entirely out of the mainstream.

There’s nothing wrong with being gay, but lesbian porn just doesn’t do it for me. I’m straight and in today’s world that probably makes me weird.

Eventually I got comfortable with a magazine and things that needed to happen, well, happened. The sample was delivered and the most embarrassing exercise of my life was over.

I just hoped no one would notice how embarrassed I was as I walked out of the lobby. I don’t think anyone did.

A week later the doctor reported that everything was good to go. What a relief.

Six weeks later, my wife and I learned that our first born was on his way. Another relief.

Five years later, I can tell you that children provide more awkward moments than I would have ever realized. There are embarrassing moments involving the bathroom, crying, and things that they notice that they want to tell you about in their own way.

But none of those moments compare to the 30 minutes I spent at that clinic.