Evolutionary biologist Daniel Lieberman explains how we evolved to crave high-calorie sugary foods:
We evolved to crave sweet foods. Everybody loves sweet foods. But if you try to eat foods that hunter gatherers eat or chimpanzees eat, you’d be surprised at how unsweet they are. Most wild fruits are about as sweet as a carrot. So we love sweetness but until recently, pretty much the only food that we got that was sweet was honey and honey of course was a special treat, honey was pretty much the only form of dessert in the Paleolithic. But now we have access to abundant quantities of sugar and simple carbohydrates, which we evolved to love because they’re full of energy but we don’t have the metabolism. We don’t have the bodies that are able to cope with those kinds of levels of sugar and the result is that we get sick.
Daniel Lieberman is the author of the book The Story of the Human Body: Evolution, Heath, and Disease
May the lives remembered, the deeds recognized, and the spirit reawakened be eternal beacons, which reaffirm respect for life, strengthen our resolve to preserve freedom, and inspire an end to hatred, ignorance and intolerance.
September is National Preparedness Month: Be Ready
If you’ve seen the news recently, you know that emergencies can happen unexpectedly, in New York City or in any community. We’ve seen tornado outbreaks, flash floods, earthquakes, and even water main breaks, power outages, and fires. National Preparedness Month is a time to prepare yourself and your family for emergencies. Get ready this month by attending events held throughout the five boroughs, taking the Ready New Yorker of the Month Contest quiz for a chance to win a Go Bag, and more.
"I’m in a bit of an introspective mood, because one of Ireland’s greatest poets died today. His name was Seamus Heaney." "Do you have a favorite poem by him?"
Digging by Seamus Heaney
Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.
Under my window, a clean rasping sound When the spade sinks into gravelly ground: My father, digging. I look down
Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds Bends low, comes up twenty years away Stooping in rhythm through potato drills Where he was digging.
The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft Against the inside knee was levered firmly. He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep To scatter new potatoes that we picked, Loving their cool hardness in our hands.
By God, the old man could handle a spade. Just like his old man.
My grandfather cut more turf in a day Than any other man on Toner’s bog. Once I carried him milk in a bottle Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up To drink it, then fell to right away Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods Over his shoulder, going down and down For the good turf. Digging.
The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge Through living roots awaken in my head. But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests. I’ll dig with it.