Jamie Oliver Doesn’t Want to Cook You a Salad
The crumply Cockney teddy bear is not here to South Beach, Atkins, Master Cleanse or Michael Pollan your Cheez Doodle dimpled butt into starvation or Whole Foods-based bankruptcy. He just wants you and your kids to know what a fresh tomato looks like. And maybe eat one once in a while. Or he’ll cry.
In his native England, Jamie Oliver – dyslexic, erstwhile Naked Chef, husband of Jools, father of Daisy, Poppy, Petal and another to be named upon his (fingers crossed for “Stamen”) or her September arrival, and self-proclaimed “professional s**t-stirrer” – has made a cottage industry of calling foul on vile school cafeteria fare and teaching plain ol’ British folks not to murder their families with processed food. In the course of this, he’s set up community cooking centers and classes, exhorted Parliament to address national obesity issues, campaigned to ban junk food in schools and garnered Prime Minister Tony Blair’s approval for