How Many Milligrams?

How Many Milligrams?

by Maria Lewytzkyj-Milligan

1937

Popeye would never admit he was wrong. And he absolutely hated that some journalists had appealed to data rather than authority and found out that in fact, the idea that spinach was so nutritious, and the only reason he was even empowered in his cartoon strip, was a misprint. What? he asked.

He held the newspaper inches from his face before he threw it to the ground in front of his boss Elzie Segar’s office. How could intelligent people who had helped him get his job in the first place forget the decimal point? It was 3.5 milligrams of iron, not 35.[1] But as the saying goes, the damage had been done.

He knocked but pushed the door open before Elzie could even finish saying, “Come in.”

So, Popeye appealed to the man who drew him into a series of events every day. He knew how difficult it would be to rebrand, but enough was enough. He was starting to lose ratings. Plus, even if some argued that that wasn’t true, the idea of falling into obscurity because of a misplacement just stirred him up enough that he’d have to rely on the writer rather than on his own inclinations if he wasn’t going to just go off and hit someone for feeling screwed over.

“Elzie, we can’t keep going on like this!” Popeye cried out. “I know we go back …”—Popeye remembered being added in 1929 and trying to figure out how Olive Oil ever even stomached Ham Gravy as her boyfriend—“but look! There’s no need to get upset either and make me do impossible stuff in the next several strips, alright? But can you give me a break. This is serious! 3.5 rather than 35 milligrams? Really?”

Elzie Crisler Segar had created Popeye, and for most of those years, they were fine. Now, things were different. The AMA had started only just last year with a policy demanding that flours and products get fortified with iron and B vitamins. And now this? Popeye couldn’t go anywhere without someone mentioning the misplaced decimal point. 3.5 grams. That’s it. How was it fortifying his diet if he wasn’t getting 35 grams?

“Calm down, Popeye. I’m not going to draw you in a way that makes you appear weak, if that’s what you’re carrying on about.” Elzie turned away from Popeye back to his desk and grabbed a pencil. He shook his head and lowered his tense shoulders.

“No, Elzie, that’s not it at all. I’m worried. New information is available, and even if you are the authority on what happens to me next, I’m not OK with you just ignoring the new facts. We’ve got to make it right!”

“Popeye! That’s close to impossible at this point. I’d have to remaster you but showing that you’re strength comes from less iron than we previously thought!”

“Sounds about right!” He looked puzzled. “I mean I Yam What I Yam? You can’t come up with something better?”

“Come on, Popeye. You’re being too harsh. That’s like telling music lovers that all this time they were under the illusion that sitting at home spinning records was better, when in fact it was much better all along to have stuck with live performances.” He stood up from his desk and headed for his record player and turned it on. “All You Want To Do Is Dance” started playing and Popeye growled and grumbled and lifted his tattooed arms to his right. “Now, Popeye,” Elzie admonished.

“So what? That’s probably true. People are spending too much time alone, they used to dance out in public, look at one another, now they croon by themselves, can’t let the band surprise them with the next song so they have to pick the next tune—”

“No, Popeye. That’s a very negative spin on bringing recordings into homes. I mean look, most families now can spend time together or a couple can romance one another with a select number of tunes. Or I can …” He glanced at the record spinning.

Popeye grumbled.

“Please, Popeye. You’re about to make me hit you with a major disaster in the next set of panels!”

“Look, I’m going to look like a moron. This Eric von Wolf recorded it wrong in …”—Popeye rubbed his face—“1870! When he transcribed the number from his notebook. So, eating spinach isn’t that amazing! And that’s my fuel?”

“So what do you suggest? I suddenly change your fuel?”

“That’s a possibility given this new information. You might as well tell people that—”

“But you just got a statue in the spinach capitol of the world!”

“Crystal City, Texas just immortalized me for having too little iron in my spinach! What does 3.5 milligrams get the average person in terms of strength? The desirable amount for adults and children is 16 milligrams a day. But then me? How’s that supposed to make me stronger than anyone else?”

“You’re a positive influence, Popeye. What am I supposed to change your fuel to?”

“Maybe just supplements? I’ll have to increase my rate of eating spinach otherwise.”

“What?”

Put in one of the panels that I’m supplementing with iron pills. It’s the latest thing on the cover of Strength and Health. That way people won’t wonder about iron itself, just how much we need. I can’t just be getting all this done with spinach!”

“Geez, I thought you might suggest that new macaroni out of St. Louis from Kraft.”

“Macaroni and cheese? 19 cents a box, feeding lots of people during these horrid times, but probably not going to give me my sailor arms. Why not fish? Isn’t that the most obvious answer?”

Elzie scratched his head as if Popeye had a point. “You mean have you fishing at sea in the panels and getting your super-human strength from eating fish?”

“Ah, yeah! Seems like a no-brainer. Wimpy’s been eating fish and of course, the burgers. Can’t get away from that one.” He grumbled. “But what if we can super-human iron fish? And I still rely on the spinach, but you make sure that you take in the most recent informat—”

“Please, Popeye. You’re blowing this out of proportion. No one is going to know the difference between 3.5 milligrams and 35 milligrams of iron. They’re just fortifying flour and some products.” Elzie swayed to the music and shifted his hips a bit.

“They could fortify me! Have a panel where they fortify me!”

“Oh, Popeye. I’m about to put you on vacation and have Wimpy eat the spinach and get less wimpy if you don’t—”

“Oh, I see, you can just write me off and it doesn’t matter Crystal City, Texas and all the hullaballoo, so then—”

“Ok, Popeye, look,”—he put pencil to paper—“I have a good idea. I’ll address the issue, let me explore a few things. It could, at the very least, not take spinach totally out of the picture, but we can make a slight adjustment.”

“Modern times, they say eggs, shrimp, liver—”

“Don’t!”

Elzie laughed and continued, “Dark poultry meat, pork, and dried fruits.”

“I’ve also been reading more modern assessments of iron-rich foods. Oysters! Or say kale, broccoli leaves, chard, beet tops.”

“Wait, seriously you can’t pull out beet tops, but …”—Elzie stopped swaying around sending Popeye into a quick pace, his hands woven together behind his back as he gazed at the floor. Elzie needed inspiration, so Popeye leapt over to Elzie and patted him on the back to forgive him for listening to that song repeatedly.

Elzie smiled and continued, “You’re making a good point. According to the Consumer Guide, the secret is getting iron every day by eating different foods that contain it, not just one!”

“It’s supposed to come from different sources.” Popeye got so excited he strapped himself to a belt loop, hooked on both sides of the doorway, and did a few somersaults. Then, he said, “But to keep it simple, if you have to in the strip, I prefer oysters!” Then, he pulled out the can of oysters he’d had in his pocket all along. When he heard someone yelling down the hall, he looked to Elzie for a cue.

“Wait, let it wait. Let’s see if it escalates.” Elzie turned back from the direction of the yelling and continued. “But I can see it now. Right when you’re about to die, you whip out a can of oysters?”

“Yeah, there’s a canning boom.” Popeye devoured the can of oysters and smiled. “That’ll look good!”

[1] This, in fact, is true, by the way. Look it up! lol