My great-grandmother lived to be over 100 years old. Never leaving her rural Bulgarian surroundings, she might have been one of the last people on the planet who wouldn’t be able to tell you who Ronald McDonald was. Hers was a diet of simple, natural foods: meat that wasn’t pumped full of growth hormones and antibiotics, vegetables that weren’t grown in a haze of insecticide, and fruit that didn’t last for weeks without spoiling. By the sheer accident of her not-yet-civilized environment, she was eating better than the vast majority of us civilized city folks. Now I’m trying to do the same and return to a diet of real food, free of deleterious additives or deceptive imitations, but it’s hard. It’s very hard.
Who decided that Valentine’s...
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