What You Do With Life's Lemons

Braided Essays_Week1_HemaShah – What You Did With Life’s Lemons

The Rocky Start

Disappointed at the birth of yet another girl child, your father wished you had never been born. Your grandmother took you under her wing and made sure you were nourished. When the time came, you walked 2 miles to the school in the next village – wearing the hand me down uniform until there was no more fabric left to let out and it was bursting at the seams.

At 14, they dressed you up in bridal finery and married you off to a man 10 years older than you. A middle son, quiet and mild, his older brother was married to your older sister. She had convinced them to take you without a dowry. You were fair and pretty. You would make beautiful babies. When you said you’d prefer the educated man, your father said he couldn’t afford the scooter the man wanted as a dowry. You dropped out of high school to marry an uneducated farmer.

In your new home in the distant city, you heard the rats rummaging around you in the dark. You had moved here with your husband and son to carve out a new life for your family, in the land of opportunity and riches, away from the vagaries of the monsoon and the harshness of a family in which everyone struggled to survive.

You cradled your 2-year-old son protectively, that lovely, fair beautiful boy who represented that bright future you know would be yours for sure. Nothing would harm a single hair on his head or any other part of him. You worked as a house maid and a nanny. You saw how people lived in the city. How they groomed themselves and their children. You made sure your child dressed well, smelled good and ate healthy home cooked food. He was the centre of your universe. Your reason for existence. And nothing was too good for him.

Dancing in the Sunshine

By sheer luck, or was it fate, you happened upon a very special family. They showed you a little love and kindness, it was more than anything you had experienced before, except the grandmother in the village.

You figured out a way to make yourself indispensable to this family. No task was out of scope, too small or too far beneath you. Like a sponge, you absorbed everything happening around you. You learned how to cook different kinds of foods. You watched YouTube and learnt how to organize cupboards, make metal objects shine like you, iron clothes, scrub floors.

You were the maid everyone wanted. But you stayed loyal to the family, caring for the grandma and grandpa as if they were your own flesh and blood.They became the center of your universe. 

You learned how to count money, the price of things you never knew existed. And your dream started to get clearer and sharper. You wanted your children to have a life like that of the family you served. Built on a solid foundation of education and good work ethics.You enrolled them in schools that would prepare them for such a career. You couldn’t afford the tuition, but learning from the grandma, you found a way. You saved and scrimped and denied yourself everything but the barest necessity. You taught your children to value the opportunity. At Parent Teacher meetings, you dressed in your finest clothes to make sure you wouldn’t embarrass them.

Back in the village, your parents were getting old and needed help. You found it in yourself to forgive your father, and rebuild a relationship with them. You helped your siblings and their children make their way into the big city and save themselves from the unpredictable life of a farmer.

And just as everything was going well, things fell apart. The family that you had served for 14 years while raising your children left the city. Grandpa was the first to go. And then grandma. You nursed them till the very end. And then the rest of the family left your city. 

Hunt that Sun

Stunned by the sudden loss of anchor and purpose you stumbled. Sometimes you came close to despair.

But slowly, you recalled the stories you had heard from the grandparents. About hard times and keeping the faith. About resilience and bouncing back.  You learnt to ask for help and accept it. Your friends and family rallied around.

Reluctantly you found a new family to support. They are very young, just a little older than your own children. The young couple are smart. They both have demanding, well paying jobs. And yet, there is so much they have yet to learn. Things you learnt from the grandma.  About hunting dreams and managing your finances. You show them how to make their money go further. You teach them what you've learnt about prioritizing time and money. You promise you’ll stay with them till their baby is old enough to go to school.

And even as you do that, you stay true to your dream. You keep paying off the loan you've taken and rent out the home you've built. One day you will retire there. You build up your skills by asking questions, watching you tube and tik tok videos. On your days off you work ad hoc jobs, organizing people's clutter, making traditional treats at festivals. You are finally able to save, and your investments are paying off. 

Through focus and hard work your kids made it into engineering school.

 

Out of Gas

The following is based on an actual cyber attack that came to light in May 2021. It has been dramatized for purposes of narration

At Emily’s Home in Durham, NC

Emily investigated the contents of her freezer. She normally went grocery shopping on a Thursday, but with less than half a tank of gas, she did not want to take the risk. Gas pumps all over town had run dry. There was talk of tankers arriving at a station close to the highway, but chances were they would run out by the time she got there. Best to conserve and make do with whatever supplies she had on hand.

At Colonial Pipeline

Computer screens across the data centers read, “Your files are encrypted by DarkSide”. Some screens included a demand for ransom to decrypt the files. The IT Team systematically set about isolating computer networks with a view to salvaging some part of the system. They were unsuccessful. They couldn’t tell yet how or when the intruders had taken control of their system. They could see though that every single operations process had been compromised. This was not their worst nightmare coming alive, simply because they had never imagined such a scary scenario was even possible.  Within 2 hours, the Data Center director had informed her boss that that the systems managing the 5000-mile pipeline that delivered gas to pumps from New York to Georgia were unreliable. At the Executive Meeting convened shortly thereafter, the CEO shut down the pipeline that delivered more than half the fuel consumed in States along the East Coast. It would result in an extreme fuel crisis, as this was one of the 2 feeders to gas stations across the East Coast states. 2 decades earlier, this CEO had the led the effort to convert fuel supply to “just-in-time” eliminating the cost of distributed storage for a dramatic reduction in cost. Now, with the pipeline shut down, gas stations would receive half the supply needed on a daily basis. Government agencies, including the FBI and White House were engaged. The company also opened a channel to discuss the US$4.4M ransom demanded by DarkSide.

At DarkSide

The room was dimly lit. The tables were arranged in several concentric half arches. Every table was covered with computer screens, each one of them covered with text that was being constantly updated. At the center of the innermost arch a person huddled over a large monitor. He wore large headphones over his ears and spoke into a microphone that he projected out of them. “Phases 1, 2 and 3 are now complete. Very well done! We now enter the final phase of our operation. It looks like our ransom will be accompanied by some close scrutiny by the Feds. Team 4 what is your assessment ?” A synthesised voice came back into his ears, “They cannot come anywhere near us in 6 of our 11 stations. We have a high risk of exposure at 2 stations, medium to low at the other 3 our agents are in place, if the Feds are able to secure cooperation from the international agencies we’re SOL. There has been no cooperation among many of these agencies for the last 40 years. I’d estimate risk of being detected at 4 of 10.” “That will be all then. Next touchpoint at 18:00 GMT”, he said, and signed off.”

At the White House

“7 states have declared emergencies because more than 70% of their gas stations are now out of gas. The rest expect to hit that mark later today. The Department of Energy has authorized emergency fuel transportation by truck and rail and the EPA has temporarily waived fuel quality regulations. We are working with the State Governments and private sector partners to help us get relief immediately. The FBI is looking into the money trail, and expect to have a concrete update   in the next 24 hours.  

At Emily’s Home in Durham NC

An alert from her neighbourhood community app NextDoor chirped on Emily’s phone. “Gas now available at the Hillendale Gas station and at Costco”. With a sigh of relief, Emily grabbed her purse and entered the garage. It had been an anxious 4 days without going out. One more day and she would have been out of milk and bread.

At DarkSide

It was a little more than ninety days since Colonial’s Gas Pipeline had been attacked. The ground was being prepared for a foundation for an office building. Large earth moving equipment littered the scene. A man with a hoodie sat in a pickup truck nearby. He looked at his phone as it vibrated. It took a few seconds to decrypt it. It read, “All footprints removed from CP. FBI got to 3 of our transfer agents. Lost 2.3M.”  He deleted both messages then drove away.  

The Teacup

 

The Teacup Hema Shah 927 words.

Wrapped in tissue paper, each cup and saucer sitting neatly in its own slot in the box were the 63 pieces of my mother-in-laws fine china tea service. Little pink flowers and green leaves on a pale yellow background.  It was now my issue to deal with as we combed through her belongings looking for treasures to keep, and things to give away. This particular set had been my mother-in-law’s prize possession.

And then I remembered another pattern – fine bone china, pink roses on a white background, a hint of gold on the handle. A dozen cups, saucers, cake plates and a side plate, matching teapot, milk jug and sugar container. Mrs Cunningham, wife of the General Manager of Humphries Tea had presided over that set at the Officers Club in Assam.

Every Sunday, the plant managers and the families from the 23 tea estates would drive over to the Officers Club, dressed in their Sunday best. The wives would join Mrs Cunningham at a large table covered with platters of food. Cucumber and water cress sandwiches with the edges trimmed, atleast 3 different types of scones and buns and cakes, sometimes samosas, sometimes pakoras.

I sat with my brothers and the other little children at a separate table, similar laden with food. Instead of tea, we had milk shakes and coca colas. The fine tea cups were reserved for the grown-ups, especially the women – the men mostly drank something from the bar. We were young, innocent and stupid.

At 6pm, the lights would be dimmed, and a movie would be projected upon a makeshift screen. It was generally a movie based somewhere in Europe – the men always wore suits, and the women wore pretty dresses, just like Mrs C’s. Mrs C seemed like such a lovely and fair person. She was everything my 8-year-old self wanted to be. Pretty and important.

When I was 9 years old, I was sent away to a boarding school in Dehradun. It was a very small girls only school. I remember how comforted I felt, everytime I happened upon the teachers on their tea break. They were drinking out of the same white fine china cups with the roses. Sometimes we would get to join them. They taught us how to hold the tea cup , the handle held between the thumb and three fingers, little pinkie standing up in the air. “That is the only way to hold a tea cup”, I can still hear Sr Ansel’s voice in my year.

As I peered into the box, my throat and neck felt tight. The muscles in my shoulder ached. Bile rose in my throat as I remembered what had happened that day when I had taken my 2-year-old son at the Officers Club.

I was standing on the large veranda of the clubhouse, rocking my infant child to sleep, when I heard a very loud crash. Rushing in to the dining hall, I saw the remains of 3 or 4 broken cups scattered around the ankles of an older server, Ramu dada. Ramu dada had been a server at the Officers Club since before I was born. He had always been very kind to my brothers and me. In fact he had been kind to all the children that came to the club. A very sad and dejected Ramu dada was staring at the cups in disbelief. “I don’t know what happened, “ he told me. A couple of workers ran out from the kitchen and helped him up. There was a little blood on his left ankle.

Mrs C sailed into the dining area “Look at what you’ve done now, you silly old fool. Do you know how expensive this tea service was. How are we going to replace the broken pieces. I’m going to have to take out the cost from your paycheck. I cannot believe you did something so stupid!!! You silly fool. Why don’t you just sit at home like other old men!”

I felt tears burn my eyes. Ramu dada was a kind gentle soul. He had never raised his voice. He didn’t need to be berated or yelled at. It was only a tea service. And at 76 he deserved to be resting in his cottage, not being berated by this white woman, even if she was his employer.

Eventually, the haranguing stopped. Mr C had come out to see what the commotion was all about. Someone offered Mrs C a glass of sherry. Mr C asked someone take his wife upstairs, and had someone else go look for the doctor. He asked one of Mrs C’s friends to take over the rest of the tea ceremony.

Ramu Dada was helped away by a couple of young orderlies, his wounds leaving a light trail of brown on the beautiful Persian rug.

The image of the cup on my screen suddenly brought back the entire scene. “Why are you crying mummy?” my 3 year old wanted to know. And I felt the tears run down my face. Of course I was sad for Mrs C and Mr C and their loss of a few pieces of china. , But I was heartbroken for Ramu Dada. And I was heartbroken for myself.

Partition 1947 - Braided Essay

 

Week 4 – Hema 722 Words Oct 4, 2025

Partition – 1947

British India Viceroy Curzon sowed the seeds of Partition in 1905 by dividing the Bengal province along religious lines. This burgeoned into a strong divisive force as the Quit India movement picked up steam. With Jinnah holding firm to the belief that Muslims would only be safe in a Muslim state, and Gandhi unwilling to see a divided India, it ened up becoming Mountbatten’s job to execute Britain’s exit from India. Radcliffe, the man commissioned to divide up the country and all of two months, drew a line across the Punjab and Bengal, leaving millions of people on the wrong side of the border. This triggered a mass exodus of Hindus from various parts of Pakistan into India, and the reverse migration of Muslims from India to Pakistan. It was a massive, bloody, uprooting of millions of lives on both sides of the border.

*

Karim woke up long before the muezzin’s call to prayer echoed through the makeshift tents of the Walton Camp in Lahore.  He wasn’t the only one. Several other, hungry and restless souls were up and about. Perhaps a shipment of food would come in later today; perhaps some medicine; perhaps today he would be able to find transport to Faisalabad.

He had sent his wife and children on as soon as it seemed like British India would be divided into the Muslim country of Pakistan, and India. Like many of his friends in Delhi’s Chandni Chowk, he had hoped that he could continue to live on in a secular India and be allowed to continue to operate the business his ancestors had built up over generations.

But the messages from his wife’s family had continued to grow increasingly urgent. Once the border had been published, hundreds of thousands of Muslims had left for Pakistan. His wife sent an urgent plea asking him to cross over. Reluctantly, he turned over his assets to his cousins and caught one of the immigration trains to Lahore. He hoped he would be able to return in a few months.

The city was in absolute chaos. You could barely get around the city, and there was no way to get to Faisalabad to his family almost 200 kilometres west. He had been lucky to find a spot in Walton Camp where he camped with a group of people who had travelled north on the same train from Delhi.

*

In India. the once pure, and still considered holy, Yamuna river now looked like a cess pool. The site, just outside Delhi was home to a massive camp for refugees who had just arrived from Pakistan. With hundreds of thousands of refugees dipping into the river to wash, the Yamuna was now more deadly threat than a vital life source.

Rajeshkumar, the owner of a food stall nearby, looked on with sadness. He knew as a Hindu in India, he was among the fortunate ones. He was not forced to abandon his life and home.  Yes, his business had shut down. His equipment along with those of the other stores on the street, had been pressed into service to cook food for the refugees. And yes, he had sent his wife and children to the safety of her father’s home in a village 200 kilometers away. They were safe there. In a few weeks this would all settle down. It would take him some time to recover, but they would be ok.

*

Karim joined the He joined the rest of the camp in morning prayers, performing them as best they could. They did not have water for the ritual washing, nor clean clothes. But they had clean intentions, and they prayed with fervour. He prayed this madness would end soon. He prayed for food, prayed that his family was safe and that soon he would be with them.

Rajeshkumar completed his prayers  without clean water and incense, precious commodities at a time like this. He applied the ritualistic grey ash to his forehead, invoking the mercy and grace of the various Gods that managed different aspects of his universe. He prayed that the trucks with food supplies would arrive early this morning, so that they could try to feed the starving. He prayed that the madness would end soon and he could be reunited with his family.

 

Barking Up the Wrong Tree OR The Road to Hell is Paved with Good Intentions

 Barking Up the Wrong Tree – Hema (or the Road to Hell is paved with good intentions)

There it was.....her beautiful wooden box with the different sections for storing her ink well and nibs and the spot for the fine paper. But what was that horrible Hussain doing with it? 

That beautiful wooden box, with the different sections for storing the ink wells, the nibs and the fine paper. She remembered tucking it away into her backpack after last week’s “Show and Tell” at the art class. The teacher had asked her to show the class how she had used the different nibs to create the award-winning poster. The box was very special. It had belonged to her aunt, the one who was an artist and lived in New York. Her aunt had gifted it to her upon learning of her interest in graphic art and calligraphy. Rani treasured it and kept it locked in her desk, except for when she took it to demonstrations, like she had last week, or when she took it home on the weekends.

She had unlocked her desk on Friday afternoon, and to her horror, found an empty space instead of the box. She had checked her backpack and frantically searched the Art classroom. Her friends and even the Art teacher, Ms Halwai, joined the search. Rani was inconsolable. The teacher had posted a sign on the notice board asking for help finding the box.

And here, at Monday recess, was that dreadful Muslim boy, grinning from ear to ear. He seemed to be teasing her as he held her precious box slightly over his head. She rushed towards him, “Give that to me at once! How could you take it away from me? You don’t even know what it is used for!!”

The grin on Hussain’s face vanished into a sea of red. “I was just bringing it back to you.”

“Of course,” she sneered grabbing the box with both hands. “Cos you knew someone would catch you soon enough.”

Hussain reeled under the venom spewing from her eyes. “Look, you know, that’s not true. I saw the notice on the board. I know how special this box is to you, so I went looking for it. I’d last seen you use it in art class on Friday. I talked to the janitor. He says he found it on a window sill.”

“Oh, go blame the poor janitor now. You must have taken it from my backpack in art class. Why would I go leave this precious set on a window sill?” She turned away from him. Then over her shoulder, “If you must make up a story, at least make up a better one. I am going to report you to Ms Halwai.”

Hussain tried to stand his ground. “You’re barking up the wrong tree. I’m not the guilty party here.” And then weakly, to her departing back, “I just wanted to help you.”  And even as he said it, he knew. He had been wrong to hope they could ever be friends. His was a family of devout Muslims, she came from a clan of fierce Hindus. Both families still bore the scars of “Partition”, some terrible event that happened more than 75 years ago, something that he really did not understand.

The lump in his throat threatened to become a sob. He swallowed it.  He had only wanted to bring the box back to Rani. She had seemed so sad and forlorn on Friday.  Shyly, he had hoped, that they could be friends, perhaps collaborate on a poster together, he had seen some fantastic Arabic patterns.

He waited outside the principal’s office staring at the floor, his chin resting on his chest, certain he was guilty of something even if he hadn’t stolen the box.

The principal would definitely call in his parents. Abba would shake his head sadly and say, “What were you thinking?” Mom wouldn’t say anything, though she’d make sure he realized how much he had embarrassed the whole family. His cousins would tease him, there would be no mercy there. Perhaps grandma? No, that Hindu business would get in the way.

Pandu, the janitor, watched the small crowd clustered outside the principal’s office below. He suppressed the surge of pity that welled up inside him at the sight of Hussain’s forlorn figure. He remembered that day not so long ago, when he had learnt that same bitter lesson. He had tried to help a beautiful woman in distress. Instead of being grateful, she had turned the wrath of the mob on him. He had lost his job and his reputation. More than that he had lost the will to salvage either.

Pandu had been in a hurry to close up that past Friday afternoon. He was going to his village for the weekend. He had quickly walked through the classrooms, emptying the trash and setting the chairs back in place. The box had been sitting on the window sill in the Art classroom. The sill was just above eye level for the middle school kids. This was the fifth item he had rescued from the window sill this year. Kids usually set things up there while packing their stuff, and sometimes they forgot to take it. It was a pretty box, and for a while he entertained the thought of keeping it. Regardless, he would put it in his closet till Monday morning. It would be safer there.

On Monday morning, when he saw Ms Halwai’s notice, he realized that it was best the box be found. He planned to place it back on the window sill in the Art Classroom in the period after morning recess. Then it would be a matter of pointing it out to one of Rani’s friends. He did not want to engage in the business of returning it directly. Who knows what he might be accused of. But young Hussain had knocked on his door at the start of morning recess.

And before Pandu could say anything, Hussain had spotted the box on the shelf. “Where did you find that box? I must have it at once. We’ve been looking for it since Friday. Rani is beside herself. I must bring it back to her.” Hussain had been so eager and so anxious to be a hero he reminded Pandu of himself and his own foolishness all those years ago.

But Hussain was young and the principal was fair and wise. He would give Hussain a chance to prove his innocence. And certainly, Pandu would cooperate. And perhaps, Hussain would learn to curb his good intentions and save himself from really going to hell. 

The Wolf Returns

<Neighborhood bar. A man (Wolf) sits at a tall round table. He has a folder in front of him and a glass of clear colourless liquid in front of him. He is staring at the phone in his hand. A beautiful blue eyed blonde woman (Rose) about 5ft 8” tall and slims strides over to his table.>

Rose:

“Rebecca Rose. I understand you have been asking about me?”

<Stares hard at the mark on his forearm as he rises and extends his hand>

Wolf:

<Seeing her eyes widen as she sees the mark on his forearm> “Perhaps you recognize me, then?”

Rose:

 <Calm, cool, collected, she keeps her hand by her side>

“Yes, and I cannot see why you think I might want to talk to you.”

Wolf:

 “And yet, here you are. You see young Rebecca Rose, it is because I believe you to be a good and kind and forgiving person. And in the past 20 years I have had a lot of time to think about the pain I inflicted on you and your family, I have had a lot of time to be deeply ashamed of what I did, and I have spent a lot of time trying to figure out how to demonstrate that regret and beg for your forgiveness. Won’t you sit down?”

Rebecca:

<Rebecca stares, bewildered. This is so far from anything she had ever dreamed or imagined>

Wolf:

“Please hear me out.”

<Rebecca reluctantly sits on the bar stool across from him. >

Wolf:

“That fateful day I met you in the woods, Rebecca,  please may I call you Rebecca? I was in a very bad place.”

Rebecca:

<frostily> “Indeed”

Wolf:

“Yes. I had gotten in with a bad crowd, and I was doing some seriously nasty things alcohol, drugs… One day when I went to the apartment we rented, I found my stuff packed in a suitcase outside the door with a note. My girlfriend had taken my little girl and gone home to her parents. She did not want my shadow to darken their lives anymore.  I moved into a homeless shelter; I couldn’t afford my own place. I missed them both, but especially my little girl. I swore I’d clean up my act, and we’d all be a family again. I attended a couple of AA meetings; I tried to get clean. But it was difficult. I had serious withdrawal symptoms, and a relapse every now and then.  

That day in the woods, I saw you and once again I yearned for my little Rosa. And when you talked about your grandmother’s cottage – something inside me snapped. If I was your grandmother, I could sleep in a nice soft bed in a warm cozy cottage. And my little Rosa would come visit me. She would bring me food …. ”

Rose:

“What……?”

Wolf:

“I know it sounds crazy. I was crazy with the drugs and the withdrawals. Honestly, it must have been your kindness and wholesomeness that stopped me from just running away with the food basket you were carrying for your grandma. All I wanted was her home, her bed and the love of a family.” <A tear rolls down his face, which he hastily dabs with his handkerchief>

Rose:

“But you killed an innocent, weak old lady…….”

Wolf:

“And I will regret that till the day I die. I will regret the pain I caused you and your family. I regret the fear I created in your community. I know it is too much for you to absorb and take in. But perhaps, you will think about it? Perhaps you will consider forgiving me, and helping me make amends? I know I can never right all the wrongs I’ve done. But I want to do whatever I can. I won’t be up for parole for another six months. Maybe you will correspond with me? Come see me in prison? Talk to my supervisor and pastor? Help me in my journey of atonement.  It would mean a lot to me.” <Hands her a slip of paper>

Rose:

<Numbly, she takes it and stares at it>

Wolf:

<He rises and bows> “Thank you Rebecca Rose for your kindness. I shall now look forward to tomorrow, knowing that there is hope for me after all.

<Door closes behind him>

 

Sugar is Bad for ?

Assignment: Option Three: 

Writing a convincing academic paper on anything theoretical. This can include mathematics, political science, ecological issues. literary, theoretical physics, economics, etc. Make it intentionally rubbish or nonsense. Convince us it is the real McCoy

Sugar is the new villain on the block. Dietitians and medical practitioners everywhere are advising their patients to cut back on sugar and carbohydrates and to turn to protein instead.

And yet, for centuries, sugar has been an essential part of our diet – regardless of the culture or age group you are in. Every celebration starts and revolves around sugar, be it cakes and candies or the rice puddings in Eastern countries, or the milk based confections from India. We turn to sugar when we are sad and depressed – cookies, ice cream or just plain old sugar cubes.

So why is sugar suddenly the villain of the piece. Is there any real research to back up the claims of medical practitioners? Our team of researchers went undercover into hospitals and doctors offices to understand when sugar went from being the reward for being a good kid to the absolute worst thing you could give a 7-year-old before bedtime.

In the early 1900s when sugar fields in the colonies were delivering huge profits to the masters in the “civilized” worlds, sugar was being heavily promoted through all channels. It  was a solid energy providing ingredient that not only nourished children but also encouraged them to finish consuming their meal quickly. Lifestyle influencers – primarily magazine editors were also incentivised to promote desserts as a key part of celebrations. Every channel the sugar lobbyists found was being exploited.

By the 1980s, the pharmaceutical companies were manufacturing large quantities of cholesterol and sugar management drugs, for which they needed customers. The sugar consuming patients became ideal candidates for these drugs. The pharma reps enticed doctors to prescribe their medications with trips to international conferences and similar incentives.

But by 2008, margins on these drugs started to fall. The number of reps visiting the medical community and the international conferences started to dwindle. Government pressure to reduce the prices of these drugs further added to the misery of the pharmaceutical companies and indirectly to the end of the gravy train for the medicos.

Angered by having the fine rugs literally pulled from under their feet, hospitals and doctors decided to drive both sugar and the pharmaceuticals to ruin. They also found new suitors in the packaged meat and fish industry as well as the synthetic protein manufacturers.

Today, the same doctor who advised you to put sugar and chocolate in your child’s milk to make him or her drink it up faster, is telling you that that is the equivalent of putting poison into your child’s mouth.

In our opinion, the medical practitioners have as much certainty of the efficacy of protein as they did about the goodness of sugar. They are trying to do the best they can with the available information and the incentives are working as designed.