Missoula News

Bob Wire Has a Point (It's Under His Cowboy Hat)

If Salt Is So Bad, Why Did God Make Fritos?

By Bob Wire, 3-07-11

Take it easy, Charlie Sheen...it's just salt.

There’s a silent threat lurking in millions of American households, and you may be the next victim of its cruel attack. It’s called Bland Food, and it’s the number one weapon in the War On Sodium.

No one is safe, including yours truly. I was minding my own business, enjoying a flavorful, spicy diet, going through two cans of Morton’s salt a year, when the enemy fired a warning shot across my bow: hypertension. I remember it as clearly as if it was three weeks ago, which it was. Mrs. Wire and I were in Walgreen’s picking up some prescriptions and a couple of items from the As Seen On TV! aisle —some life-changing vegetable chopper or something.

“Let’s check your blood pressure,” she said, pointing to the sit-down B.P. machine in the pharmacy. “It’s been a while.” I have a history of high blood pressure, but it hasn’t been an issue for several years.

I rolled up my sleeve and submitted. The LED readout said 148/98. “Borderline high,” I shrugged, rolling down my sleeve. “Guess I’ll cut back on the Bugles.”

“Again,” said Barb. I rolled my sleeve back up. This time the readout said, “Don’t buy any green bananas.”

Two days later I was seated on the exam table in Dr. Nick’s office, fearing the worst while he poked, prodded, squeezed and listened. Then he took my blood pressure. “I don’t like these numbers, Bob.” The reading he got was 152/102. “That’s pretty high. You’re well into the danger zone.”

“Weeeeerrrr!” I wailed on some air guitar, shredding on the theme song from Top Gun. “One step closer to the danger zooooone!” I pointed to the blood pressure cuff. “I don’t know, man, is that thing as accurate as the machine at Walgreen’s? I could go to Wal-mart for a second opinion.”

“Well,” he said, removing the suspect cuff. “You’ve got hypertension. Could lead to heart disease.” Then he uttered The Sentence, the one all males dread their entire lives, the one that we invariably ignore until it comes from a Doctor, someone with the exact combination of knowledge, authority and objectivity that leaves no doubt: “You need to make some changes in your lifestyle.”

I gulped. My depth of field suddenly grew shorter, just like in the movies. Somewhere a string section began playing ominous music in a minor key.

“How much alcohol do you drink?” he asked.

“Just enough.”

“Just enough for what?”

“Just enough to keep from going on a daily killing spree. Next question.”

“According to the BMI index, you’re morbidly obese.”

“Say what now? Sure, I could lose a few pounds, but obese? I mean, I can still fit my arm into the blood pressure machine at Walgreen’s. Besides, you might have noticed that I’m not built like a friggin’ Ken doll? I’m a barrel-chested man of action! I’m just too short for my weight.”

“Twenty pounds,” he said. “And cut back on the caffeine.” My coffee!? Oh, right. While we’re at it, why don’t we just tell Popeye to cut back on his spinach. Keith Richards and his Wild Turkey. Charlie Sheen and…well, you get the idea.

Then came the dietary coup de grace: “And you need to drastically reduce your salt intake.” He gave me a prescription for a blood pressure medication, and a list of foods to avoid.

If I’m reading this thing right, the only thing I’m allowed to eat now is celery. And no, celery salt does not count. And no, I can’t dip the celery in a small pile of table salt before every bite.

Actually, there are several foods that I’m allowed to eat, most of them grown in dirt. But no more bacon. No more hot buttered popcorn. No more salt & vinegar chips. No more Gatorade. No more dry roasted peanuts, no more smokehouse almonds. They might as well just put up yellow crime tape around the grocery store snack aisle.

Less fat, less caffeine, less alcohol—I can deal with all that. But the salt thing is a real game-changer. Most processed foods contain a significant amount of sodium, as I’ve learned since becoming a compulsive label reader. I really regret this, because I’m finding out some pretty unsavory things about the foods I love. A tablespoon of Cardini’s Caesar Dressing, for example, has more fat than a Whopper, and enough sodium to turn Lake Tahoe into the Dead Sea. Especially after I’ve properly topped my salad with shredded parmesan, sunflower seeds, chow mein noodles and garlic croutons. Can you imagine what’s in those croutons? Dude, you don’t want to know. I’ve avoided watching Food Inc. for just that reason: I’m afraid it’ll put me off my feed.

But an enforced menu of tasteless food is still preferable to the alternative. So I’m changing the way I cook, hitting the gym on a regular basis, and drinking half-caffeinated coffee. The coffee problem has kind of solved itself—I just drink twice as much. But I am sorely missing my salt. I found this stuff called Mrs. Dash, and I’ve tried it on a few different foods. You know what they should call it? Pepper. Well, it’s pepper mixed in with some other stuff, like shredded lawn clippings, ashes, sawdust, and trace amounts of uranium to give your food that extra zip.

I thought I might get around the salt thing by spicing up my chow with hot sauce and jalapeños, but that just exacerbated a couple of other middle-aged-dude problems. I’ve really had to cut back on the spicy stuff because whenever I indulge, six hours later I’m gargling battery acid and roasting marshmallows over my flaming rectum. Adios, jalapeños. So long, Rotel. It’s been fun, Mrs. Renfro, but, baby, I’ve got to cut you loose.

So I’ve decided the best approach is to follow doctor’s orders, put on my big boy pants, and take my medicine. I’ve outlived several of my heroes, including Jack Kerouac and Elvis Presley, so now it’s time to nut up or shut up. I might wind up living on a diet where crawfish étouffée and chile rellenos are but distant dyspeptic memories, but at least I’ll be around to watch my kids grow up and maybe even give me some grandkids before I find myself stretched out in my deathbed, dying from nothing. Maybe I could persuade one of those grandkids to nip down to the gift shop and get their poor ol’ grandpa Bob a can of Pringles.

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