The word vitamin is defined in the dictionary thus: “Any of a group of substances that are essential in small quantities for the normal functioning of metabolism in the body. They cannot usually be synthesised in the body but they occur naturally in certain foods.” I like the sound of the word ‘thus’. There is something very strong in its brevity and it sounds as if whatever you are going to say, people will believe you.
In an article I wrote for Gulf News in Abu Dhabi back in the 90s when my daughter was at primary school, I said that I’d spent the last few years trying to persuade her that vitamins do not occur naturally in take away fried chicken, sugary biscuits or French fries, but she had reached the age of reasoning and could see through my white lies – after all she could see her fast food addict friends were still alive, if not thriving. And at that age, that’s all that matters. It’s hard to make a child see that it’s the long term effect of poor nutrition that matters to mothers, because unlike us, children tend to live for the moment.
I tried to live in the moment when unsuccessful for the third time in getting hold of a person, any person, at the ANZ online and by phone last week. I decided I wouldn’t even get an interview for living in the moment.
You can’t have serious discussions with a six year old about the importance of fibre, healthy fats, vitamins and minerals, when you’re faced with serious competition in the form of plastic dinosaurs or Pokemon characters handed out by fast food companies like rock wallaby feed at Granite Gorge. Getting children to eat healthily is like bathing a cat. It can be done, but there will be retribution.
How many people do you know who have an allergy to certain foods, cannot eat gluten or are lactose intolerant. It’s endemic. I’m no expert at all, but interestingly, in cleaner, more industrialised societies, children are exposed to fewer microbes early in life. The immune system, under-stimulated, starts overreacting to harmless things like peanuts or pollen. Higher allergy rates are found in urban populations vs rural ones, and in high-income countries vs developing ones. Somewhere along the line, cleanliness stopped being next to godliness and started being next to complete immune confusion.
We used to play in mud, and feed the dog from the table. We would lick cake batter off cracked wooden spoons that hosted the bacteria of hundreds of baking episodes and a child digging a hole in the garden to bury an earthworm. It was washed with hordes of other implements in lukewarm water and dried with a teacloth that hadn’t seen the washing machine for a week. I’m not saying we should all go back to licking trees or drinking pond water for immunity — but the obsession with sterility may have left our immune systems under-stimulated and overdramatic.
Somewhere between the introduction of antibacterial soaps, hand gel and cutting boards we lost the plot. We’ve become a society that sanitises everything from trolleys to other people’s children.
And while we’ve done P I’m one of those awful people who visibly grimace when I see some shopping trolleys being unloaded in the supermarket. It’s like those moments that you are in a public place but reliving a horrible memory, feeling the anguish, and you suddenly realise you are screwing your face up like an overripe passion fruit. It’s the same face your children pull when you experiment with olives or quinoa.
Far more shoppers are wearing glasses in the aisles these days. I’ve never known so many people read the labels on the back of cereal packets. They must have heard of Butylated hydroxytoluene, the cereal killer. Growing up in the family health store and being faced with a handful of vitamins on the breakfast table every morning, I suppose I was somewhat indoctrinated, but I’m glad of that.
I had a friend stay with me in Abu Dhabi who was of an ilk when it came to an interest in healthy eating and our vitamin bottles vied for space on the top of the refrigerator. Clutching our glasses of Chardonnay, on my return from work we would ooooh and aaaah at each other’s latest discoveries. At that time it was such things as oyster shell calcium, gingko and silica. It was tempting to trade remedies, but we were grown up enough (or so we thought) to realise that one dose would not make any difference to the strength of our bones or make our hair grow an inch overnight.
I recall selling Nutrimetics in the late 80s, spending a fortune on the set up kit, which included vitamin tablets. I truly resented my party hosts handing them around at the ubiquitous home sale parties as if one chewy tablet would turn their guests into Meg Ryan.
There were no shortcut dinners or marinated poultry in Abu Dhabi supermarkets, no Shepherd’s pie or cheesecakes, no pasta bakes or bacon wrapped chicken. Certainly no bacon wrapped chicken. Going to visit family in the UK, I dreamed of full days spent in Sainsburys or Marks & Spencer’s food section. But there was something wonderful about having to create every meal from scratch.
It’s not just gossip that backs the hypothesis that our over-clean, sterilised, bacteriaphobic modern lives may actually weaken our immunity. I reckon I’m doing okay for my age, and touchwood, very healthy, despite letting the family cocker spaniel lick my plate then my face as a kid, and standing thigh deep in putrid ponds in the local woods, catching tadpoles then eating a picnic sandwich without an antibacterial wipe in sight.
Of course, I’m not advocating for a full return to filth. I’m just saying that disinfecting has become like gaming, an addiction. Personally, I think we’re sanitising the joy out of life. Kids’ microbiomes are crying out to be fed. We have far worse enemies than dirt and a few germs, and they’re busy inventing something else to destroy your immunity.
Right, I’ve got my wellies on, and I am off to scrape the sludge out of the bottom of my fish pond. I might have some on my salad tonight. Ta ra!
