Never, the nutritionists advise, eat anything your grandparents wouldn't recognize as food.
Wise counsel, to which I'd add: never wear anything Steve McQueen wouldn't recognize as clothes; never settle down with a book that George Orwell wouldn't recognize as literature; never hang a picture on your wall that Picasso wouldn't recognize as art; never lend an ear to anything Hildegard of Bingen wouldn't recognize as music.
The last of these prescriptions might be considered a trifle severe, obviously. But cacophonous contemporary music is one of the most undesirable blights of the modern world, especially in the summer months when toe-tapping, head-nodding ingrates feel free to unleash their mind-numbing "beats" in public parks and beaches at maximum volume. Which is why I order a strict diet of liturgical monophony for all and sundry as soon as the weather warms up.
So, to sum up, this summer I suggest eating Caprese salads (Campari soda optional but recommended) with a lightweight Baracuta jacket slung around your shoulders, P. G Wodehouse novel bookmarked beside you (don't read at the table, please), Winslow Homer watercolor displayed prominently in your eye line, and a disc of monastic plainchant on the turntable (or, if you're feeling particularly summery, perhaps a little scholarly reproduction of festive Roman flute playing).
But above all, ignore any blog posts featuring a supercilious list of things to not do. It is summer, after all, and the livin' is supposed to be easy rather than loaded with loads of idiotic Draconian rules.
Just watch your frozen yogurt intake. Lots of sugar in those bad boys. I refer you back to the nutritionists quoted in my first sentence.
