lördag 19 januari 2013

You can spell rårakor without byråkrati

Vidare på temat med statssaboterad mat - från mises.org:

As a response to the low-fat craze, the pork industry began utilizing new feeding and breeding techniques. Essentially, the animals have been genetically altered to produce a white, lean, dry meat product to adapt to the political-nutritional health models that were sweeping the mainstream media and consumer consciousness. The pork industry’s website admits to claims that:
Today's pork has 16% less fat and 27% less saturated fat as compared to 1991. Many cuts of pork are now as lean as skinless chicken.
Additionally, the same website page notes that this new pork meets the government’s “guidelines” to earn a declaration of “lean.” The new “lean” meat is produced not only through the production of a leaner animal with reduced fat, but also a reduction of intramuscle fat that cannot be trimmed.

Consequently, modern pork is artificially pale and unexciting, hence the “white” designation.

Temat återspeglas även i Tyler Cowens mattips i Econtalk:

Russ: You have a chapter on barbecue. One of your favorite foods. You have three rules for good barbecue, which are: a barbecue restaurant should open early, should be in a small town, and go for the ribs, not the brisket. Why are those good rules?

Guest: If it's in a small town, the chance that they are skirting laws and regulations, or maybe the laws aren't there, are much higher.

Det finns dock en kader välgörare som står upp för det goda, och åtminstone bitvis med gott resultat - Reason listade nyligen topp 10 framgångar under 2012.

Och skulle någon undra över vikten i att stå upp konsekvent även för sådant som kan ses som mindre nöjen i det stora hela så har George Orwell beskrivit det med all önskvärd elegans i 1984 - från george-orwell.org:

He meditated resentfully on the physical texture of life. Had it always been like this? Had food always tasted like this? He looked round the canteen. A low-ceilinged, crowded room, its walls grimy from the contact of innumerable bodies; battered metal tables and chairs, placed so close together that you sat with elbows touching; bent spoons, dented trays, coarse white mugs; all surfaces greasy, grime in every crack; and a sourish, composite smell of bad gin and bad coffee and metallic stew and dirty clothes. Always in your stomach and in your skin there was a sort of protest, a feeling that you had been cheated of something that you had a right to. It was true that he had no memories of anything greatly different. In any time that he could accurately remember, there had never been quite enough to eat, one had never had socks or underclothes that were not full of holes, furniture had always been battered and rickety, rooms underheated, tube trains crowded, houses falling to pieces, bread dark-coloured, tea a rarity, coffee filthy-tasting, cigarettes insufficient -- nothing cheap and plentiful except synthetic gin. And though, of course, it grew worse as one's body aged, was it not a sign that this was not the natural order of things, if one's heart sickened at the discomfort and dirt and scarcity, the interminable winters, the stickiness of one's socks, the lifts that never worked, the cold water, the gritty soap, the cigarettes that came to pieces, the food with its strange evil tastes? Why should one feel it to be intolerable unless one had some kind of ancestral memory that things had once been different?

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