Old Age, Gender and Physical Activity "Strength is Health”: George Barker Windship Health Through Sport How to Train the Body for Health and Poise Medicine, Science and Sport The Bicycle and Tricycle as Aids to Health and Recreation Passive Smoking What is Strength? Health Insurance Decisions What Makes Man a Sprinter? What to Fish for in February? Sport and its Economic and Social Importance Use of Weights for Health Does Ageing Drive Health Expenditures Medicare: Policy Issues Indoor Training for Outdoor Sport Starting and Starters Insured versus Not Insured Babylonian Astrology The Wrath of Heaven The Displaced Zodiac and the Beginnings of Astronomy The Duty of the Son of Heaven: Orientation Time Was Once Relative	Long live the Revolution Though I have known greater pleasures, I can't imagine a sweeter one than stopping at John Halsey's Milk Pail on a bright November afternoon to buy a fivepound sack of Russet apples. Thirty years ago John opened his farm stand in the village of Water Mill on Long Island's East End, selling milk from his own herd, but he soon switched to growing applesshiny red Jonagolds, Macs and Macouns, pale green Mutsu, and several other gleaming varieties. But my favorite is the drab, undersize Russet with its smart crunch and its resemblance-until you catch its rosy fragrance-to an unripe potato. These Russets probably came over from England with the early settlers and could never have been much use commercially,-given their homeliness. Perhaps they survive because they are said to make good cider, but John doesn't grow nearly enough for pressing, and when I ask him why he bothers with them he shrugs, as if I'd asked about his religion. One day last fall, I was paying at the counter for my Russets when one of John's customers, a weekender in tweeds and burnished leather, re:-coiled as she caught sight of my purchase. "What are those?" her frightened glance seemed to ask, but when I offered her one, hoping to make a convert, she withdrew further. "They' re much better than they look," I said. "No, no," she murmured and, with a timid smile, clutched her husband's arm and her sack of bright red Macs, and before I could say another word, she had climbed into her Land Rover and was gone. I hadn't seen Russets since I was a child, and I thought they must be extinct until they turned up at the Milk Pail five or six years ago. "These can't be Russets," I said when I first saw them on John's counter. And when he, with his ruddy cheeks, as if he himself were part apple, assured me they were, I found myself thinking of my grandfather's orchard on a hillside in Maine, whose gnarled trees may have been even older than he was. There, on autumn afternoons, I would invite myself to squat beside him on the patchy grass while he, with his all but toothless Tatar grin and ancient eat's eyes, reclined against the trunk of a tree, cutting a Russet with his clasp knife and handing every other slice wordlessly to me. Those Russets must have been the first apples I ever tasted, and, like all early joys, they are planted deep within the land of heart's desire, the land where all longings lead if only one can learn the way. The accelerating American culinary revolution, now in its third decade, began, I am certain, in the desire and pursuit of such buried yearnings as my own for Russets, a pursuit enabled by the postwar collapse, hastened by waves of Toyotas and croissants, of our old mass-production culture that offered such abundance and so little choice or authenticity; or, as the English poet Phillip Larkin wrote apropos of the simultaneous sexual revolution, the great change began "In nineteen sixty-three . . ./Between the end of the Chatterley ban/ And the Beatles' first LP." Alice Waters, the Thomas Jefferson of the American culinary revolution, was a student at Berkeley in 1964 when the late Mario Savio was proposing to throngs of fellow baby boomers that they reject the old mass society, with its coercive culture of low average quality, in favor of an honorable utopia ruled by personal choice and individual conscience. "Resist evil" was the advice Savio passed on from his Jesuit teachers to his campus converts, dangerous talk given Satan's many masks, the persistence of human folly, and the universal tendency to confuse superficial differences with sin, whether the stranger is one's Tutsi or Hutu or Bosnian neighbor or, in the case of John Halsey's timid customer, my adored Russet apples. Inevitably, Savio's advice has had mixed results, but in the 20-year old Alice Waters, Savio found a disciple worthy of his ideals. The joyless and unwholesome American diet of the time, with its chemical chickens, bottled dressings, and industrial tomatoes, was unmistakably evil, and Alice-who had never forgotten "the applesauce made from the fruit of [her family's] apple tree," or herself at three and a half "dressed as the queen of the garden . . . with radish bracelets on my wrists and strawberries strung around my neck . . . and a crown of asparagus atop my head"-set out to replace it. This was, for once, a revolution worth joining, for its goal was not a fanciful and remote paradise too pure for human habitation-and in the meantime, despotism-but a decent table to replace the factory food that had monopolized our diet and was mining both health and pleasure, a goal within reach of anyone with a willing palate and the price of a simple meal. At 19, during her Berkeley junior year abroad, Alice came upon a modest stone house in Brittany who se stairs led up to a "small dining room with . . . pink cloth-covered tables from which one could look through the opened windows to the stream running beside the house and the garden in back." There she was served "cured ham and melon, trout with almonds, and raspberry tart. The trout had just come from the stream and the raspberries from the garden." This dinner Alice would remember "a thousand times." When she returned to Berkeley, where "everyone believed in community and personal commitment and quality . . . Chez Panisse was born," not to make money, as Alice later explained, but to impart joy, educate tastes, and celebrate authenticity. Thus began the American culinary revolution. Its sacred texts were the recipe books of Elizabeth David and the alimentary romances of MFK Fisher. Its cadres were trained by Julia Child and Richard Olney and Simone Beck, by Michael Field and Maida Heatter, by James Beard and Alfredo Viazzi, the Genoese saint who first taught Americans that Italy was red only south of the shinbone. Craig Claiborne of the New York Times was its Minister of Information, and the Chino family farm in Rancho Santa Fe near San Diego, with its white carrots, rose-red turnips, and myriad tender lettuces, all organically grown, was its legendary provisioner. But Alice was the author of its Declaration of Independence, its founding architect, and its ultimate teacher.