I don’t want my tiny space here in the blogosphere to concentrate on weight loss, but I would like to answer a question posted in yesterday’s comment section. The granddaughter of a wheat farmer asked, “so what is wrong with wheat?”
Gentle reader, I do not mean to disrespect the life work of your grandfather and the crop he grew to feed this nation. The wheat in your grandfather’s day was very different than the wheat that is produced today. Today’s wheat has been genetically modified to not only resist disease but to up its production from 8-9 bushels per acre to 80-110 bushels an acre.
It is this genetically modified wheat that is causing problems.
Photo courtesy of Kahlil Group
After reading something several years ago about the mechanics of the body, I had begun to wonder if I could be insulin resistant. I didn’t know how to go about reversing this problem, and life went on. Until I recently read this and everything began to click.
Reading this gave me an accurate picture of how my life had become, especially my evenings. And since I stopped eating wheat, less than two weeks ago, this cycle has completely stopped, my cravings are nonexistent, and my pants are already fitting better. I have a terribly long way to go. But finally, I feel as though I’m on the right track.
And then, when I read this, well, this is just scary. I’ve always wondered if my husband’s brain tumor was the direct cause of the use of Roundup. Several of the horse farms on which he worked over the years used Roundup for weed control and my husband was one of the people using it. I hate the stuff although I can’t deny that it works. But I never realized that it was used on wheat destined for human consumption.
I don’t want this blog to become about weight loss and the evils of Big Food. I simply made a statement about wanting to change something in my life for the better. And it’s already beginning to be better. Giving up wheat and wheat products might not be for everyone, but it’s already working for me.
And so tomorrow, I’ll be back to our regularly scheduled antics of a border collie named George, some nutty squirrels, the beauty of nature, and all that happy horseshit. (That was one of my father’s favorite expressions).
Until then, my friends . . .