The political menu of food

Jawed Naqvi in The Dawn

EID in Pakistan leaves unwieldy quantities of carcasses to deal with. But the world’s largest festival of ritual slaughter is held every five years in Nepal’s Bariyarpur village, mostly of water buffaloes, for the propitiation of goddess Gadhimai. On the other hand, The Indian Express reported recently that more Indians are turning to meat eating than ever before, leaving vegetarian men in the age group of 15 to 49 — who had never consumed “fish, chicken or meat” — at a faltering 16.6 per cent in 2019-21. Indian gurus cite ancient texts to suggest that meat eating makes us aggressive and vegetarianism has a calming effect.

That’s not the way it always seems to play out though. Are people who kill people in a riot or a massacre vegetarians or meat eaters? It is probably the wrong question to pose. I once ordered a bowl of thukpa at a Tibetan restaurant in Manali. It is a meat dish with noodles popular among Tibetans who are nearly all Buddhist. In the meantime, I wondered if the owner could kindly swat away the flies. There was total refusal to do anything about the pests hovering over the table. “We don’t kill,” was the clear but polite reply. What about the thukpa? It has meat. “I didn’t kill it,” the man smiled.

Within meat-eating and vegetarian groups there are further subdivisions that can be equally needlessly misleading. Giora Becker and Gershon Kedar were Israeli diplomats I came to know in India. Becker was a free-spirited Jew and didn’t hesitate to put on his plate food that was forbidden in his culture. Kedar was an orthodox Jew who turned out to be the opposite of Becker in food habits. He was unprepared, for example, to have a meal anywhere other than the Dasaprakasa, once a popular vegetarian restaurant in Delhi. There was no chance of kosher requirements being violated at the restaurant where meat of any kind was neither cooked or served.

Their different approaches to food and indeed to their religion played little or no role in approaching the Palestinian question. If blood had to flow for their country, rightly or wrongly, it would be spilt, never mind the key commandment that forbids killing of humans as a sin.

Popular belief about food misrepresents men and animals alike. Indian gurus insist vegetarians are of a calmer disposition while meat makes one aggressive. A close look would find little or no evidence for the common claim. In a similar vein, the fact that snakes don’t drink milk caves before popular belief. Sample the faulty but commonly used idiom that refuses to yield to the compelling fact. It insists that feeding milk to a baby snake is to nurture an enemy.

The Express report on the increasing number of meat eaters in India struggles against the number of vegetarian leaders the country has elected, including the current one. The three from the Kashmiri Brahmin stock — Nehru, Indira, Rajiv — ate meat and practised yoga. The other meat eaters were A.B. Vajpayee, a Brahmin from the Hindutva flank. Chandra Shekhar and V.P. Singh, the two thakurs from Uttar Pradesh, and the two gentlemen from Punjab, Inder Gujral and Manmohan Singh were regular omnivores. Gulzari Lal Nanda, Lal Bahadur Shastri, Morarji Desai, Narasimha Rao, Deve Gowda, and now Narendra Modi bring up the vegetarian cluster. Shastri and Indira Gandhi fought wars adroitly despite their different food habits.

There’s another challenge to the vegetarian and non-vegetarian debate. You may be this or that, or, after today’s fashion, even a vegan; it will not take you away from your blood-caked past. If the late Prof Kailash Nath Kaul was right, Indian languages offer a glimpse into our cannibal origins, which we share with the wider world. The common threat to drink someone’s blood in a heated moment or chew somebody raw, or make mincemeat of one’s quarry may have an unaccepted origin in our early evolution as social beings.

Movie actor Dharmendra was more popular than his contemporaries for baying for the enemy’s blood in frequent climax scenes. He was applauded, not booed for using the north Indian idiom of bloodlust. The phenomenon is evenly distributed across many nations. Militaries carry on the tradition of our headhunting past. If one remembers correctly, there was this picture of a British soldier with a bunch of decapitated heads of Malayan communist guerrillas in the 1940s. Accusations abound of Indian and Pakistani troops periodically indulging in the gore.

According to Harikishan Sharma’s report in the Express, while the country is increasingly convulsed in the vegetarian-meat-eating dispute, the truer picture remains studiously aloof from the debate.

“More people are eating non-vegetarian food than ever before, and the proportion of Indian men who do so has gone up sharply in the six years between 2015-16 and 2019-21,” the Express quotes the National Family Health Survey as revealing. Women meat eaters too have increased, albeit glacially.

The 100-year-old couple – still married, still going strong

Paul Laity in The Guardian

We don’t know anyone else over 100. We are really oddities: two people married for 78 years, one 103, the other 100. We’ve outlived everybody. And it’s rare, I recognise that. We’re very lucky. The best I can wish you is our luck.”




Morrie Markoff is sitting on the sofa in his downtown Los Angeles apartment next to his wife, Betty. They are delighted that someone from the “Manchester Guardian” has come to talk to them, though these days they are used to a degree of attention. When Morrie was 100, a gallery in the city put on his first art show, exhibiting his scrap-metal sculptures, photographs and paintings. “Ease up on the 100 business,” he remarked at the time. “I’m trying to pass as 90.” Now the Markoffs are to appear in Aging Gracefully, a book of photos of centenarians by Karsten Thormaehlen; they are the only married couple in its pages. 

“We’ve been together for nearly eight decades, and we still haven’t killed each other!” Morrie says.

“Though we’ve tried a few times,” chimes in Betty. “We’ve had plenty of run-ins, oh my God … but he never hit me, and I never hit him. Though I think I pushed him once.”

In turn, Morrie jokes about trading her in for two 50-year-old women. But whatever arguments they had are a thing of the past. “Now it’s peaceful,” Betty says, her hand touching the back of Morrie’s neck. She dismisses any idea of there being a secret to making a marriage work so long. “Just don’t let every complaint turn to anger. Tolerance and respect. And you’ve got to like them. Morrie would never use the word love; I do, but the actions are the same on either part.”

Why not the word “love”? Morrie replies that “to me, love is possessive; it’s controlling and demanding. The word that I would rather use instead is ‘caring’. You care about people. ‘Care’, to me, has a much deeper meaning. Love is an esoteric word, but one that people also use to mean all sorts of off-hand things. ‘I love playing tennis,’ and such. I hug Betty constantly, I kiss her constantly, I care very much about her.” Morrie assures me that the day they got together was the most fortunate of his life.

They met in New York City in 1938, at the wedding of Betty’s cousin, who happened to be the brother of one of Morrie’s friends. Betty was sitting at the table on Morrie’s left. “On my right,” he picks up the story, “was Rose Lebovsky, a very pretty girl, sophisticated, with wealthy parents. Betty has asked: why did you pick me? And I say: it’s because you ate less.”

Betty’s friends were unsure about the charming machinist, who had grown up in a tenement in East Harlem. But she let him drive her back home to College Point, in Queens.

“He was so handsome, with curly black hair. And on one of our first dates, the car broke down and he fixed it quietly and uncomplainingly, just like that. No fuss, unlike other men. I was impressed. And,” she repeats, “he was so handsome.” What else appealed to you, I ask: his sense of humour? She looks doubtful. “Er, yes, well, I guess so!”

  Morrie and Betty with their children, Judith and Steven in the 1940s.

The dating didn’t last long; Morrie left the East Coast and returned to California, where he had lived for some time having taken a road trip there with friends and fallen in love with the sunshine and easy atmosphere. Was it a memorable marriage proposal? “Oh hell no,” Betty replies. “He never proposed. He just asked: would you like to live in California?”

Morrie sent her the fare for the bus, and picked her up in LA after the four-day journey. They “found a rabbi in our price range” and had a simple ceremony, during which the rabbi said: “May the marriage be as pure as the gold in the ring.” Betty and Morrie “looked at each other and almost burst into laughter” – they had a fake gold ring bought at Woolworths.

For Betty, LA is a fabulous city. “You’ve got the beach, the mountains, and the climate is so nice; I think it’s like paradise.” She shows off the one-room condo where they’ve lived for five years, since moving out of their much-loved modernist home a few miles away. The flat is decorated with Morrie’s artwork, most of it from the 1950s and 60s. There’s a view of blue skies and Bunker Hill skyscrapers; Frank Gehry’s Walt Disney Concert Hall, with its luminous swoops and curves, is almost next door.

Betty says that old age for her has meant a great loss of energy: “My walking isn’t good, and I get confused.” These days, Morrie uses a mobility scooter. “He can’t forgive them for taking his car away,” says Betty. But they still go out for breakfast, and declining vigour is in part made up for by a sharpened appreciation of the world around them. Betty enjoys sitting outside a local cafe to see the play of sunlight and shadow, and likes to watch young children splashing in a nearby fountain, wondering which ones will brave the water, and which, too cautious, will turn away.

“I’ve lived a long life and a full one,” Morrie reflects. “I’ve never known a minute of boredom. I’ve always been busy, with work, or making things, or photography or travel, or most recently writing [he’s finished a memoir]. And there’s always another book to read. I sometimes say: I have so much to do, I don’t have time to die.”

 Morrie Markoff. Photograph: Karsten Thormaehlen

The day before his 99th birthday, he did die, at least for a few moments. Having had a heart attack – “Betty acted quickly and dialled 911; she saved my life” – Morrie was undergoing an operation to put in a pacemaker when something went wrong and he flatlined. “The surgeons killed me – not a good idea as I have relations who are attorneys.” Apparently, his mouth fell open, his tongue dropped out and the grieving family retreated to the hospital’s meditation room – only to be called back a little later to find Morrie alive and joking.

“If I were a religious man, I’d put my longevity down to divine intervention,” Morrie says. “As I’m not, I simply say it’s luck.” Though the fact that his father, a very heavy smoker, died aged 94 suggests his genes aren’t bad.

Morrie’s early life was far from pampered. He remembers the tenement he grew up in as rat-ridden, with a kitchen filled with cockroaches and mattresses alive with bedbugs. Six people lived in three rooms; he slept on two chairs his mother put together, piled with cushions, in front of the stove. But he was never hungry, he insists, even in the Depression years, and was given complete freedom.

He remembers swimming naked as a boy in an East River that was full of floating rubbish, condoms, faeces and flotsam; he loved to dive off the flour barges tied to the dock. Perhaps he built up a great immune system, he wonders. And diet? He relishes the memory of hot dogs on Coney Island, with mustard and sauerkraut, washed down with Dr Brown’s celery tonic. Until he got tongue cancer, Morrie also smoked cigarettes, cigars and a pipe. When working as a machinist, he’d leave the cigarettes in his mouth because his hands were so oily; the smoke would fill his eyes, and in the morning he couldn’t open them.

Betty, on the other hand, puts her long life down to her “seventh grade nutrition class”. She was always aware of preparing a meal with protein and vegetables. Plus every morning for decades they’d walk the three miles or so around the local lake, before breakfast.

They always had energy, they insist, and boredom is not in the family. One of their early drives was politics. Morrie was a member of the Communist Party USA and would often go on protests; Betty was once put in prison for an hour for handing out its leaflets. But the aim was never an overthrow of government, just a fairer society. They were devotees of Roosevelt and even more enthusiastic about Barack Obama. As for Trump: “In my lifetime, he’s the oddest person to be elected president … he’s an egomaniac, a wildcard, a casino-owner: how much tax does he pay?”

“He’s so prejudiced,” Betty adds.

Betty Markoff. Photograph: Karsten Thormaehlen

Politics spawned friendships, and they had a close circle when bringing up their two kids, Judith and Steven. (One odd thing about getting to a very advanced age, Betty has said, is seeing your children becoming senior citizens.) The LA house they lived in for decades was part of a progressive housing co-operative; it was designed as a community, and its residents were in and out of each other’s houses all the time. “The friends are not there any more … they are long since gone,” Betty says. I ask her how that feels. She’s quiet but brisk in reply: “Oh, I’m very adaptable.”

After the war, during which he was deferred from the army to make detonators and contour rockets, Morrie ended up owning his own appliance shop. He used the scrap metal from air-conditioner repairs to make the small, dynamic sculptures that were exhibited decades later. But then a passion for travel and photography took over, and Morrie and Betty shine a bit more brightly when remembering their camping trips and tourist escapades. The photos they show me of their trips around the world, from Mexico to Macau, are of an astonishing quality. What camera did you use, I ask? Morrie begins to enthuse about his Rolleiflex and Leica, before Betty groans and changes the subject.

She is clearly proud of him, however. “He’s very talented in lots of directions,” she says in a moment when he’s not around. “If he had grown up differently, who knows what he might have achieved?”

Morrie still feels his days are not long enough, and insists you don’t need much money to live an active and involved life. Their daughter lives in the next building, so even the death of one of the couple won’t spell utter loneliness. Yet again, he mentions their luck.

As I prepare to leave, he chides me mischievously: “You haven’t asked us about our sex life!” Then he laughs: “that’s just a memory”. With his hand on Betty’s knee, Morrie looks at the woman whom he has never told he loves, and says: “After 78 years, I can say I didn’t make a mistake. We’ve had our ups and downs, but we’re still here.”

A Diet for those who love to eat and wish to lose weight

The 5:2 diet – feasts for fast days

With its flexible approach and simple rules, the 5:2 diet has become the calorie-control plan for people who like to eat

• 
• • Felicity Cloake
  • The Guardian, Sunday 5 May 2013 19.30 BST

The fasting diet, otherwise known as the 5:2, restricts calories for two days a week. Photograph: Felicity Cloake

For the first time since university I am on a diet. Somehow, I've become a calorie-counter, someone who weighs out porridge oats and drinks herbal tea. In other words, the kind of person I've always pitied.

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The thing is, I'm actually quite enjoying it – enjoying being a relative term, of course. In an ideal world, I'd boast the kind of robust metabolism that laughs in the face of cooking six bakewell tarts an afternoon, but I don't. And since I started my Perfect recipe column a couple of years ago, I've noticed the pounds slowly creeping on. There's a lot to love about my job, but it does make it almost impossible to eat healthily.

The fasting diet, otherwise known as the 5:2 because of the format – five days of normal eating a week and two in which you restrict your calories (500kcal for women, 600kcal for men) – seemed to offer a glimmer of hope for my hips. It's basically the diet for people who like food. Everyone from Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstallto wine writer Fiona Beckett has been boring on about fast days, and if they could do it, well, so could I.

So far, I've managed two months. As someone who's never made a habit of weighing themselves, I can only tell you that I think I've lost about 10lb since I started, which includes a two-week period over Easter where I gave myself a bit of a break, but only put back on 1lb.

The odd thing was, after Easter I was impatient to get going again. The 5:2 already feels like a long-term project. It's not difficult to stick to either. After all, if you really want a biscuit, you can always have one tomorrow – a thought I find extremely cheering.

Many people I've spoken to seem to avoid cooking at all on a fast day, reasoning perhaps that it simply puts temptation in their way. Indeed, in her book, the Fast Diet, co-authored with Dr Michael Mosley, whose 2012 BBC Horizon programme on fasting kickstarted interest in the idea, Mimi Spencer advises preparing food in advance, and keeping it simple, "aiming for fast-day flavour without effort".

I couldn't disagree more. For me, the challenge of devising satisfying recipes that fit within the daily 500-kcal limit has kept fast days interesting, and frankly, if you're only going to be eating two small meals a day, heating them up in the microwave makes things even more depressing. Here are a few tips I've found useful so far, and three of my favourite fast-day recipes …

• Low-calorie cooking is all about strong flavours: pungent spices, zesty lemon juice and salty soy sauce will all help to distract your attention from the missing calories, as will lots of garlic and big handfuls of fresh herbs.

• Don't be too hard on yourself. Usually I sniffily avoid artificial sweeteners, but a cold glass of slimline tonic with a slice of lime and plenty of ice goes down a treat when everyone else is glugging wine. I've even been known to indulge in a low-calorie pot of jelly when I'm feeling particularly wild.

• Carbs are rarely worth the calories. A paltry 50g of brown rice takes up over a third of your daily calorie count. Save them for tomorrow and fill up on vegetables and berries instead.

• Pickles such as gherkins (14kcal per 100g) and miso soups (20-30kcal a cup) are your friends for snacks.

• Drink lots. Sparkling water, evil diet drinks and weird and wonderful teas will keep you occupied mid-afternoon.

• Embrace your inner nerd and invest in a set of electronic scales and a calorie-counting book or app, or you'll find it impossible to measure your intake accurately.