I love words. I wish I knew more of them; I envy people who have the ability to pick up second and even third languages with ease. I always figured you couldn’t go on to another thing until you have mastered the first. This goes a long way to explaining why I am a less than fluently bilingual Anglophone living in Quebec.
The late George Carlin was also a lover of words. One of his routines involved pointing out that the words flammable, inflammable, and noninflammable are three words that mean just two things. I have recently discovered another such situation. The words cholesterol and flavour, I have come to realize, are interchangeable.
The words cholesterol and flavour, I have come to realize, are interchangeable.
Last week I learned from a routine blood test that my bad cholesterol level is significantly higher than it should be. A call from my nurse practitioner brought this news, as well as some suggestions of things I might try before turning to medication. (Do they make statins on that island near Manhattan?) Something as simple as a change of diet, might be a good place to start.
I will come clean; I’m not a good eater. I like butter. I love cheese. Creamy sauces. Salads are fine as a first course, to be followed by a big steak and potatoes. Ah…potatoes. Baked taters aren’t too bad, as long as you don’t put anything tasty on them. What’s the point. Top this off with a few beers and Voila! I’m a ticking timebomb (OK…perhaps not that bad.)
Doing a bit of online research was when I discovered the interchangeability of the two words. Everything that has flavour also has cholesterol. It’s diabolic. Think of a tasty item and sure as hell it’s bad for you. To paraphrase Newton’s Third Law of Motion about equal and opposite reactions, for every tasty food bit, there is a whack of cholesterol.
To paraphrase Newton’s Third Law of Motion about equal and opposite reactions, for every tasty food bit, there is a whack of cholesterol.
I tell people I suffer from High Flavour.
You’d almost think it had been done intentionally. I’ve come to believe that it started way back in the Garden of Eden when that prick of a serpent, after tricking Eve into taking a chomp of the bad apple, thus causing all hell to break loose, continued his dastardly work. He made it so that whatever tasted good. Really good. Was destined to kill you, not instantly, but slowly. By all means, he must have said, let them gorge on rice cakes and pinto beans as much as they want. But understand that a couple of toasted English muffins dripping with butter will be the end of things as we know them.
It’s only been a week or so, but I think I’m starting to resemble a piece of Romain lettuce. I’d cross my fingers and hope for the best, but whenever I think of fingers I think of Finger Lickin’ Good Kentucky Fried Chicken. I never thought I’d hang a framed picture of Colonel Saunders in my kitchen, but it helps to look at him while I’m chugging an oatmeal based smoothie.