Like many of you who pushed away from the Christmas goose a little too late in the game, I have become obsessed with the feel-bad journalism that rolls around at this time every January, a roll call of groats, capon broth and certain death that is as dependable as a Lakers road loss to the Portland Trailblazers. The galley of Eternity Soup, Greg Critser's forthcoming book on immortality and severe caloric restriction, has scarcely left my side.

Before the New Year, you get columns discussing the Taco Bell drive-thru diet, the harmlessness of candy canes and the minimum amount of exercise you can get away with. After the holidays, it's all about the city attorney's gallstones, the surgeon general's pot belly, and the healthfulness of burgers without beef. Michael Pollan's new book, Food Rules: An Eater's Manual, may be The Omnivore's Dilemma as translated by a gang of LOL Cats, although you may take pleasure in the fact that 62 of his 64 Food Rules apply to dinner at Chez Panisse.

So in the context of New Years resolutions, celebrity scolds and Facebook pages devoted to the lemon cleanse, the New York Times article on the Caveman Diet seemed almost sensible. Why let a Brooklyn address stop you from following a regimen of raw, wild meat and frequent fasts? The only question left to be settled is this: which wine goes with illegally trapped squirrel?

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