Genetic strains have been induced to increase yield per acre. The average yield on a modern North American farm is more than tenfold greater than farms of a century ago. Such enormous strides in yield have required drastic changes in genetic code, including reducing the proud “amber waves of grain” of yesteryear to the rigid, eighteen-inch-tall high-production “dwarf” wheat of today. (Davis)
The problem with increasing the yield was that the head of the wheat plant got so heavy, that the stalk broke. I live in grain-growing country. I have seen, but had never noticed, how low the wheat plants are.
Our married life began in Humboldt County, California, a mecca for hippie homemade-granola types. We ground our wheat, fried soy burger patties, ate carob, drank kefir, sweetened with honey and seasoned with tamari. There were no cans in our cupboards. (Our food righteousness was suffocating.)
Whole wheat was our banner. We’ve since relinquished (and later revisited) some of our hippie food, but we never abandoned whole grains. I embraced baking our daily bread. I’ve taught a baker’s dozen how to make loaves of bread, persuaded several to buy a wheat grinder. After the decade of teenage boys, in which I shredded six bread machines, we bought a Bosch mixer that has proven itself a great dough maker.
But it goes far deeper. I am a Christian; I regard the Bible as a holy book. Phrases like Bread of Life, eat this bread, bread and wine, bread from heaven, consecrated bread have nourished my soul. Why would Jesus say, “I am the Bread of Life” if bread is bad for you? Bread is as daily as it gets.
Last summer we stayed a week in a house at Maine. I love scanning bookshelves, gauging compatibility with the owners. There it was, Wheat Belly. I picked it up and began reading. My interest rose like yeast and I bought a copy once I had returned home.
I decided to do an experiment. I stopped eating wheat for a few days. And I felt good. I stopped eating wheat for a few weeks. And I felt great. Very scientific experiment, don’t you know. So scientific that I reintroduced wheat into my diet. And I felt achy all over. People like me with their anecdotal twaddle drive scientists bonkers. But there it is.
My family medical history is grim. I have been dodging diabetes for a decade. I have a fasting blood glucose test drawn annually and I attend to my numbers. I keep (figuratively) running, and cancer keeps (literally) chasing me. If/when a doctor looks me in the eyes and says, “Carol, you have cancer” I can imagine being sad, but I cannot imagine being surprised.
One way that I try to keep diabetes and cancer behind me is by eating foods low on the glycemic index. It’s good to cut back on sweets, but it is helpful to know that flour is my sugar, that modern wheat quickly converts into high blood sugar. Whole wheat bread has a glycemic index of 72 (glucose = 100), higher than ice cream or Coke (Harvard Health Publications, HMS).
I could never reconcile a gluten-free diet with the biblical injunction to “Eat this bread.” I believe we were created to eat bread, but tinkering with wheat has made it unhealthy for people who are insulin resistant and leptin resistant. My husband can eat bread every day. I still grind wheat and still make bread for him.
I understand that I haven’t been diagnosed with a “food allergy.” I just know I feel better when I don’t eat gluten. And I control about 90% of what I am served. When I visit a friend and she serves me a sandwich, I eat it with gratitude. In my case, the laws of hospitality trump my preferences. And the laws of thanksgiving cover it all.
One argument remains for eating bread. It is delicious! Nothing excels the smells of bread. Oh, how I look forward to weekly communion and the yummy amazing bite of bread. I chew and remember and swallow.
If you are interested in pursuing this topic further, I recommend you read Grain Brain: The Surprising Truth about Wheat, Carbs, and Sugar–Your Brain’s Silent Killers (where the dementia/diabetes relationship is explored) and Wheat Belly. Read the arguments and find the flaws. Convince me I’m full of macaroni, would you?