Little green devils

By Fayza Hassan
When mad cows reigned supreme on the news, I felt wise and self-righteous and offered my carnivorous friends, overcome with terror, the most benign vegetarian smile I could muster. Instead of the triumphant "serves you right: it's the curse of all those poor animals, butchered to satisfy your cannibalistic tendencies" I was tempted to trumpet, I murmured sweetly: "Don't worry. Egyptian cows are completely sane; you only have to see them going passively to the slaughterhouse to be convinced."
"I wouldn't make such a sweeping statement," whispered a gallant gentleman of my acquaintance, looking pointedly at his wife. I pretended to frown at the unkind remark, and pirouetted smugly, allowing all and sundry to observe what a diet of raw and boiled vegetables could do for one's waistline.
When lambs developed foot and mouth disease, further reducing the public's craving for flesh, I rejoiced some more. After all, for many years I had almost fainted with desire every time I passed a kebabgi, almost tasting the spicy, grilled morsels on my tongue as I walked by, trying to distract myself with lofty thoughts. Why shouldn't others suffer a bit too? I had given up meat, my favourite fare of times gone by, as a symbolic gesture to spare the animal kingdom at least one predator. My friends had just laughed and tucked into their roasts. Let them now get their protein from rubbery tofu, I thought spitefully, and pretend, as I do, that it is the crisp skin of a fat, juicy chicken to help the unpleasant matter go down.
Almost 20 years ago, I decided to reeducate my gastronomic inclinations and taught myself to appreciate greens and grains. The sight of millions of carcasses burning away after the wholesale massacre of European herds (only briefly described in the media, with no mention of the animals' suffering) confirmed my determination never to give in to a moment of weakness. There would be no steak for me, ever. Besides, with the mad cow debacle, I was reaping my just reward. By renouncing the pleasures of the flesh, I had practically saved my life.
Recently, I have become interested in the history of food. I thoroughly enjoy finding out what people used to eat in the past. I have begun to collect old recipes and menus. Gluttony pleases me in others and intensifies my satisfaction at having become frugal. Naturally a title like The Man Who Ate Everything caught my interest and I immediately picked up the book. I expected breast- beating from a repentant author warning his readers of the dangers of excess, with maybe a recipe or two of the deliciously fatty stewed lamb that had contributed to his heart attack. Leafing through, I gathered that this was, on the contrary, an hymn to gourmet eating. Jeffrey Steingarten is certainly no vegetarian and no sinner seeking redemption. Searching for exotic recipes to add to my collection, I was stopped by a chapter labelled "Salad: the silent killer." Salad is my daily fare and on principle I forbid anyone to malign it. I can take a great deal of vicarious pleasure in others' greed, provided they do not belittle the merits of a more ascetic diet.
Mr Steingarten did much more; he put me off my staple food. "Favism is a disease named after the fava bean," he wrote. "Mild cases of favism result in fatigue and nausea, acute cases in jaundice." He added: "Both the ancient Hindus and the great Hippocrates warned that chickpeas could cause lathyrism -- neurological lesions of the spinal cord which result in paralysis of the legs." A little further on, he states that green immature potatoes "can contain lethal [his italics] amounts of solanine in their sprouts or skins." And who could tell how mature a baked potato was before landing on one's plate? There is more: "Al dente mixed-bean salads (my favourite) contain hemagglutinins, which make your red blood cells stick together," while soybean sprouts and yams "are high in estrogenic factors, which can wreak havoc in a woman's hormones." Furthermore, Steingarten cites Professor Bruce Ames, chairman of the biochemistry department at Berkeley, as stating that aflatoxin, among the most potent carcinogens known, is present in mold-contaminated grains and nuts, "like those peanuts you sprinkle on your salad or enjoy in peanut butter." Let us be thankful for small mercies: I hate peanut butter. But what about the crunchy sticks and stalks one is supposed to keep handy in the refrigerator in case one gets peckish between meals?
Lima beans and bamboo shoots (which are not currently available here) are not an option. They contain cyanide and their consumption has caused numerous deaths. Raw cabbage, on the other hand, is responsible for a high incidence of goiter among populations that consume it in excess. In comparison, raw spinach, which only deprives the body of calcium and a few of the essential B vitamins, is rather innocuous -- especially when weighed against celery stalks, whose psolarens regularly cause severe dermatitis among those who handle the dangerous vegetable frequently. Some investigators, adds Steingarten for good measure, warn that psolarens are so carcinogenic that all unnecessary exposure should be avoided.
By the time I had gone through the chapter, I had stopped congratulating myself for having embraced vegetarianism so wholeheartedly. A sentence thrown in at the very end as a consolation prize informed the reader that raw zucchini (which I detest) were perfectly safe, as were raw carrots -- the latter only if consumed in moderation, however, as they have been known to produce severe neurological disorders in mice.
Pass the cyanide, please.
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