Sama Hoole X-berichten

[fatsnotbad]

If you're hungry on carnivore, it's one of these, and they come in this order.

- You're eating lean. Swap the 5% for the 20%.
- You trimmed the fat. Stop trimming the fat.
- You didn't add any. Butter, cream, tallow, cheese.
- You served a portion. Serve a plate.
- You stopped when the plate was empty, not when you were.
- You're eating three small meals. Eat two big ones.
- You're drinking water to fill the gap. Eat instead.
- You're counting it. Put the app down.
- You're a week in. Week three fixes week one.

Nine causes, and not one of them is the diet.

A hungry carnivore is a person eating a bodybuilder's cutting diet by accident, because thirty years of low fat taught them that the fat was the bit to leave. Put it back and the hunger goes with it.



Mike

 

[fatsnotbad]

For thirteen summers an American walked unarmed among the grizzlies of the Alaskan coast, gave them names, told the cameras they were his friends, and in October 2003 a bear ate him and his girlfriend while the camera recorded the sound.

Timothy Treadwell had been a failed actor and a drunk in California. The bears, he said, saved him. Every summer from 1990 he flew into Katmai National Park, pitched a tent in the middle of the richest bear ground in the world, and lived among them with a video camera and no gun, no fence, no bear spray. He touched them. He swam with them. He sang to them. He told schoolchildren that bears were misunderstood and that fear of them was a fiction, and he became famous for it, with a book and the chat shows and a foundation.

The park rangers warned him every year. The native people of the region said what they had always said: that a bear is a bear, that their grandfathers kept their distance and kept their rifles, and that a man who forgets what he is looking at has already lost the argument.

In 2003 he stayed late into October, past the time the fat summer bears move off and the hungry old ones arrive before the snow. A twenty-eight-year-old male with worn teeth came into the camp. The camera lens cap was on. The six-minute audio exists and nobody who has heard it describes it.

The rangers shot the bear and found the two of them inside it.

He had spent thirteen years telling the world that the wild was gentle if you loved it enough. The wild had been listening politely the whole time.



Mike

 

[fatsnotbad]

Every summer a patch of the Gulf of Mexico the size of New Jersey goes dead, the fish and shrimp leave or suffocate, and the thing that killed it is the fertiliser running off the corn and soy fields of the Midwest that grow the protein on the plant-based label.

The Mississippi drains forty percent of the United States, and most of that is cropland: a hundred and eighty million acres of corn and soybeans, fed every spring with nitrogen and phosphorus from the bag because the soil under a monoculture has nothing of its own left to give. The rain takes it. It runs off the fields into the ditches, the ditches into the rivers, the rivers into the Gulf, and in the warm shallow water off Louisiana it does what fertiliser does: it grows a bloom of algae that dies, sinks and rots, and the rotting takes the oxygen out of the water from the bottom up. By July there is a layer along the seabed where nothing with gills can live. Six, seven, eight thousand square miles of it. The shrimp boats steam further out every year to find water that is breathing.

It has been measured every summer since 1985 and has never been fixed, because fixing it means putting less on the fields, and the fields are the economy. The plant-based industry's inputs are grown in exactly that basin: the soy for the burger, the pea for the milk, the corn for the syrup and the oil.

A cow on grass puts her fertiliser straight back on the field she took it from, in a form the soil holds, and the water off a pasture runs clear. The dead zone has never once been traced to a hill farm.

The shrimp that were there are the animal protein nobody put on the ledger. The soybeans are what replaced them.



Mike

 

[fatsnotbad]

In 1887 a paediatrician in Newark lost his two-year-old son to diphtheria carried in a bottle of cow's milk, and the thing he spent the rest of his life building was a supply of raw milk clean enough for doctors to prescribe.

Henry Coit knew what had killed his boy. The milk of an American city in the 1880s came from cows kept in sheds behind distilleries, fed on the hot waste mash, milked by men with open sores, carried in open cans through the summer heat. Half the infant deaths in the city came through that can. Pasteurisation existed; Coit and most of the paediatricians of his generation refused it, on the grounds that boiled milk was dead milk and a baby raised on it did not thrive.

So in 1893 he gathered a commission of physicians and wrote a sixty-eight point contract. A farmer who signed it had his cows tested for tuberculosis, his sheds inspected without notice, his milkers' hands examined, his milk counted for bacteria every week, and in return he could sell it as certified: raw, clean, cold, bottled, and prescribed by doctors for infants, invalids and the sick. Certified milk spread to every city in America, with a medical commission in each one, for half a century. Hospitals ran on it. Doctors wrote it on prescriptions. It cost twice the price of ordinary milk and sold out.

Pasteurisation won anyway, because it was cheaper than cleaning the cow, and by the 1950s the commissions had folded and the word certified meant nothing.

The father who had buried a child killed by dirty milk did not want the milk cooked. He wanted it clean, and he spent thirty years proving that a cow could be clean. The industry chose the oven instead and the leaflet has called that safety ever since.



Mike

 

[fatsnotbad]

For thirteen summers an American walked unarmed among the grizzlies of the Alaskan coast, gave them names, told the cameras they were his friends, and in October 2003 a bear ate him and his girlfriend while the camera recorded the sound.

Timothy Treadwell had been a failed actor and a drunk in California. The bears, he said, saved him. Every summer from 1990 he flew into Katmai National Park, pitched a tent in the middle of the richest bear ground in the world, and lived among them with a video camera and no gun, no fence, no bear spray. He touched them. He swam with them. He sang to them. He told schoolchildren that bears were misunderstood and that fear of them was a fiction, and he became famous for it, with a book and the chat shows and a foundation.

The park rangers warned him every year. The native people of the region said what they had always said: that a bear is a bear, that their grandfathers kept their distance and kept their rifles, and that a man who forgets what he is looking at has already lost the argument.

In 2003 he stayed late into October, past the time the fat summer bears move off and the hungry old ones arrive before the snow. A twenty-eight-year-old male with worn teeth came into the camp. The camera lens cap was on. The six-minute audio exists and nobody who has heard it describes it.

The rangers shot the bear and found the two of them inside it.

He had spent thirteen years telling the world that the wild was gentle if you loved it enough. The wild had been listening politely the whole time.



Mike

In December 2003, two months after Timothy Treadwell was eaten in Alaska, a Russian who had spent 33 years photographing the brown bears of Kamchatka was killed by one outside his cabin, and the last frame on his camera is the bear coming through the alders at him.

Vitaly Nikolayenko was the real thing. He had no foundation and no chat shows, just a hut in the South Kamchatka reserve and a quarter of a million photographs taken over three decades of walking into the densest bear country on earth, counting them, naming them, following one old male he called Dobrynya for years. He knew more about the Kamchatka brown bear than any man alive. He also walked up to them with a camera, close enough to touch, year after year, and wrote that a bear would tolerate a man who understood it.

He was 65 and alone at the cabin on the Tikhaya river when the snow came late that year. One bear had not gone to den. It was a big male and it was hungry, and Nikolayenko had been following it on foot through the brush and photographing it at a few metres. On the last day his diary records the bear circling him. The rangers who found him in January found his pepper spray used up and empty, the camera a few feet from the body, and the bear's tracks over everything.

He had every piece of knowledge a man could have about the animal. What he did not have was the thing a Koryak hunter is born with, which is that the knowledge is for staying away.

Two men on two sides of the Bering Sea, the same autumn, the same mistake. One had a camera crew and a cause. The other had the science. The bear made no distinction.



Mike