MANY of my friends were shocked some years ago when I cut down on my junk-food intake. Even my wise old physician was a little put out. He had more or less given me the green light to the “golden arches” a few years before when, one afternoon, following my annual checkup, he’d asked me what I consumed every day. “A Big Mac, medium fries and Coke for lunch,” I answered, “and frozen pizza from the convenience store for dinner.”
“Then,” he said, since my blood test numbers were more or less O.K., “I’d recommend you keep on with the junk food.”
I did, gleefully, for a while. But at some point — maybe around the middle of my fifth decade — my Happy Meals began to leave me feeling a little less than exuberant. They sat inside my stomach, wobbling, even as I somehow felt more empty than before I had devoured them. Finally, flush with pride, I put most burgers and fries behind me.
[For more of this story, written by Pico Iyer, go to http://www.nytimes.com/2015/01...tntemail0=y&_r=1]
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