Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth

In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.

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Hating on Keto 'Pizza'

Help! All the other adults in my covid-pod are on (ugh) keto diets!

Argh!

Really, it's almost enough to make me believe in karma. Whatever I did in my previous lives to deserve this, it must have been awful.

Me, I don't need to be ketoid. I've been vegetarian since I was 18: long enough to see the long-term health benefits which accrue to plant-based eating. (And to be insufferably smug about the fact.) What I've achieved by long-term, my keto-eating friends are trying to get on the quick.

Leave aside the long-term health risks of a high-meat, high-fat diet. Let's not mention that the single most important thing that you can do to reduce your carbon footprint is to become vegetarian: i.e. keto diets are just about the most Earth-unfriendly—really, almost anti-ecological—way that it's possible to eat. Don't bring up the fact that virtually all the evidence shows that the most successful diets in the long run—like, for instance, vegetarianism—are all flexible, and that over-restrictive diets (e.g. keto) have proved to be unsustainable and have a high rate of failure.

The issue here is pizza.

Keto pizza crusts are, without exception, nasty. Oh, some may be less nasty than others, but even the best are still nasty, nasty, nasty.

Keto crusts are for pizza maximalists: people who believe that pizzas are about the toppings.

Me, I'm a pizza minimalist. I think that the best pizza is lean and clean: good sauce, a little good cheese, and, most importantly of all, good dough. When it comes to pizza, less really is more.

So no, thanks, I think I'll pass on your nasty, overburdened keto “pizza,” though I honor the hospitality of your offer.

Me, I've got an elegantly understated margherita in the oven here, with a real, honest-to-Goddess wheat crust.

Savor that incomparable yeasty-sweet fragrance. You know that you'd give anything, do anyone, just to a have a slice.

Ketoids, eat your heart out.

 

 

 

 

 

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Poet, scholar and storyteller Steven Posch was raised in the hardwood forests of western Pennsylvania by white-tailed deer. (That's the story, anyway.) He emigrated to Paganistan in 1979 and by sheer dint of personality has become one of Lake Country's foremost men-in-black. He is current keeper of the Minnesota Ooser.
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