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In 1965 she moved back to New York and to the Times. Eleven years later, she was tapped, despite her initial reluctance, to do the column. Brody has examined everything from the sensitive (impotence and frigidity) to the humdrum (how to pack a child's lunch). She often draws ideas from readers' letters, which she answers herself. "I see what they are and are not understanding," she says. One woman complained that her cholesterol level was not going down even though she had stopped eating red meat; it turned out all she had done was cook the same amount of meat until it was brown. Brody brings her lessons home. In print she promotes a diet high in carbohydrates and low in fats, sugar and salt. The pantry of the comfortable Brooklyn brownstone she shares with Husband Richard Engquist, 53, and their twin 17-year-old sons Erik and Lorin is stocked with grains, flour, beans, seeds, rice, potatoes and pasta. The family eats only 2 oz. of red meat three times a week. Salami, bologna, hot dogs, potato chips, cookies and soda never cross the threshold.
Even her family sometimes finds the rigors trying. Acknowledges Engquist, who stayed home to be the "nurturing parent": "Jane expects people to keep up with her, but her husband and children have different drummers. We don't." The boys balk at substituting cottage or farmer cheese for cream cheese. Engquist smokes, a habit Brody unceasingly rails against, and he limits his exercise to walking. His wife, in contrast, is ferociously athletic. Five times a week, though less in winter, she plays singles tennis. Every morning she rises at 5 a.m. and makes the family breakfast. After posting the menu matter-of-factly on the inside of the toilet lid, she heads out for a 3 1/2-mile run or ten-mile bike ride; in the evening she takes a half-mile swim. She cherishes those hours as "private time." Still, she interrupts her running when she sees people stretching incorrectly, bellowing "Don't bounce!"
Critics carp that Brody can be a joyless nudge. More seriously, they complain that she tends to make oracular pronouncements when scientists are still debating an issue. "If I don't sound positive," responds Brody, "people can readily discount what I say. But I'm ready for change." She used to warn against eating fatty fish. "Now I tell them they can. The evidence has changed. Same goes for olive oil." But most of her colleagues and even doctors heap on only praise. "She has done more than any other journalist to bring accurate information about nutrition and health to the public," declares Robert Barnett, an editor of American Health. Says Dr. Ernst Wynder, president of the American Health Foundation: "When it comes to preventive advice, she is more on target that most doctors."
Brody's next goal is "to be a spokesperson for the normal body. I won't try to project an image of ultraslimness. If you have a little bit of a belly or a tush, it's O.K." Moderation, she says intensely, is really the point. "Part of the problem of selling good health is that people think it's all or nothing. I try to let them know that it can be a little bad as long as it is mostly healthy." And she does not hesitate to admit her own frailties. Especially when it comes to ice cream. "I eat it until it's not there anymore," she confesses. "I wouldn't die if I were told I couldn't have ice cream, but I might think life isn't worth living."