reactions.
Although we worked diligently on this series of studies for many years, obtained very impressive results, and published lots of professional papers, we were still left with a major unanswered question: did this finding— that higher dietary casein intake produced more cancer in rats—tell us anything about other proteins, chemical carcinogens, cancers, diseases, and species (e.g., humans)?
In other words, did this startling outlier result about dietary protein suggest that our love affair with animal protein was misguided and dangerous? Did cow’s milk in modest quantities promote cancer in humans? What about other diseases? Did other animal proteins have the same effect? While I tried for decades to answer these questions using reductionist tools, it gradually dawned on me that these questions often strayed beyond what reductionist science could answer. Not because you couldn’t set up experiments to compare the effects of a diet high in animal protein with other factors typically found in a WFPB diet. Those have been done, and the results are jaw-dropping (particularly the research and clinical experiences of Esselstyn, McDougall, Goldhamer, Barnard, and Ornish, some of which we touch on elsewhere in this book).
No, the problem with reductionist research is that it’s too easy to run experiments that show what appears to be just the opposite effect: that milk prevents cancer. That fish oil protects the brain. That lots of animal protein and fat stabilizes blood sugar and prevents obesity and diabetes. Because when you’re looking through a microscope, either literally or metaphorically, you can’t see the big picture. All you can see is a tiny bitof the far larger truth, completely out of context. And whoever has the loudest megaphone—in this case, the ones shouting that milk and meat are necessary for optimal human health, whose megaphones are thoughtfully provided by the meat and dairy industries—have the most influence.
I’m sure that given enough time and money, I could conduct reductionist-style experiments that show health benefits for Coke, deep-fried Snickers bars (these are very popular at the North Carolina State Fair), and even AF (we actually showed such effects once in our lab 3 ). I’d have to manipulate the sample (say, studying the effects of Coke on people dying of thirst in the Sahara, or the effects of a Snickers bar on the mortality rate of tired drivers at 2 a.m.). I could also measure hundreds of different biomarkers and report only on the outcomes that support my bias. Or, like the elephant examiners we met in chapter four , I could perform honest research and still end up with conclusions that are incomplete and misleading because of the limited scope of my vision.
This is why we so frequently see conflicting research results in the media: the predominant research framework actually encourages such conflicts. This same reductionist framework is also why our society’s beliefs about nutrition often seem so contradictory and confusing, whether we get them from textbooks, food packaging, or government messaging.
REDUCTIONIST NUTRITION IN THE SUPERMARKET AND THE HOME
Though reductionism originates in the lab, it pervades the public imagination as much as it does the thinking of academics. Because we scientists and researchers are considered “experts,” our worldview permeates our culture’s understanding of nutrition at every level.
Pick up an elementary or high school nutrition textbook and you will inevitably find a list of known nutrients. There are about a dozen vitamins and minerals, perhaps as many as twenty to twenty-two amino acids, and three macronutrients (fat, carbohydrate, and protein). These chemicals and their effects are treated as the essence of nutrition: just get enough (but not too much) of each kind and you’re fine. It’s been that way for a long time. We’re brought up thinking of food in terms of the individualelements that we need. We eat
Although we worked diligently on this series of studies for many years, obtained very impressive results, and published lots of professional papers, we were still left with a major unanswered question: did this finding— that higher dietary casein intake produced more cancer in rats—tell us anything about other proteins, chemical carcinogens, cancers, diseases, and species (e.g., humans)?
In other words, did this startling outlier result about dietary protein suggest that our love affair with animal protein was misguided and dangerous? Did cow’s milk in modest quantities promote cancer in humans? What about other diseases? Did other animal proteins have the same effect? While I tried for decades to answer these questions using reductionist tools, it gradually dawned on me that these questions often strayed beyond what reductionist science could answer. Not because you couldn’t set up experiments to compare the effects of a diet high in animal protein with other factors typically found in a WFPB diet. Those have been done, and the results are jaw-dropping (particularly the research and clinical experiences of Esselstyn, McDougall, Goldhamer, Barnard, and Ornish, some of which we touch on elsewhere in this book).
No, the problem with reductionist research is that it’s too easy to run experiments that show what appears to be just the opposite effect: that milk prevents cancer. That fish oil protects the brain. That lots of animal protein and fat stabilizes blood sugar and prevents obesity and diabetes. Because when you’re looking through a microscope, either literally or metaphorically, you can’t see the big picture. All you can see is a tiny bitof the far larger truth, completely out of context. And whoever has the loudest megaphone—in this case, the ones shouting that milk and meat are necessary for optimal human health, whose megaphones are thoughtfully provided by the meat and dairy industries—have the most influence.
I’m sure that given enough time and money, I could conduct reductionist-style experiments that show health benefits for Coke, deep-fried Snickers bars (these are very popular at the North Carolina State Fair), and even AF (we actually showed such effects once in our lab 3 ). I’d have to manipulate the sample (say, studying the effects of Coke on people dying of thirst in the Sahara, or the effects of a Snickers bar on the mortality rate of tired drivers at 2 a.m.). I could also measure hundreds of different biomarkers and report only on the outcomes that support my bias. Or, like the elephant examiners we met in chapter four , I could perform honest research and still end up with conclusions that are incomplete and misleading because of the limited scope of my vision.
This is why we so frequently see conflicting research results in the media: the predominant research framework actually encourages such conflicts. This same reductionist framework is also why our society’s beliefs about nutrition often seem so contradictory and confusing, whether we get them from textbooks, food packaging, or government messaging.
REDUCTIONIST NUTRITION IN THE SUPERMARKET AND THE HOME
Though reductionism originates in the lab, it pervades the public imagination as much as it does the thinking of academics. Because we scientists and researchers are considered “experts,” our worldview permeates our culture’s understanding of nutrition at every level.
Pick up an elementary or high school nutrition textbook and you will inevitably find a list of known nutrients. There are about a dozen vitamins and minerals, perhaps as many as twenty to twenty-two amino acids, and three macronutrients (fat, carbohydrate, and protein). These chemicals and their effects are treated as the essence of nutrition: just get enough (but not too much) of each kind and you’re fine. It’s been that way for a long time. We’re brought up thinking of food in terms of the individualelements that we need. We eat
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