Shari Manolas Danielson

Last week, I was granted three more reasons to be glad I moved to Minneapolis seven years ago.

(Full disclosure: I don’t live in Minneapolis proper, but in a suburb 15 minutes west of the city. But when I travel and people ask me where I’m from, I always proudly proclaim “Minneapolis.” )

The videos, if you can stand to watch them, are surreal and sickening. Calves being beaten by a pickaxe. Ill pigs being buried alive by a bulldozer. Live baby chicks being tossed into a meat grinder. 

A long time ago, I had a friend who seriously thought carrot cake was good for you because it had, as one of its ingredients, carrots.

And by “a long time ago,” I mean 2002. And by “a friend,” I mean myself.

Imagine, for a moment, that you're five years old. After a busy morning in Kindergarten, you notice that your stomach is growling. It's time for lunch. Unless you brought food from home, you'll be eating what's served in your school's cafeteria. You get in line and grab a tray. You're barely tall enough to see the food behind the counter, and your teacher isn't there to help because she's having her lunch elsewhere. So when the lady wearing the plastic gloves asks you what you want to eat, you're not sure what to say. Then you might notice something familiar -- maybe a hot dog, spaghetti, or some chicken nuggets -- so you point to it and watch as it's placed on your tray.

The big election news in Minnesota is the gubernatorial race. Whomever we choose to be our new governor – Mark Dayton, Tom Emmer or Tom Horner – will have to hit the ground running to balance the budget, work with an increasingly polarized group of legislators, and turn around an economy that has decimated jobs, home values, and funding for infrastructure, healthcare, and public education.

Chances are, if you’re a regular visitor to this web site, you proudly support the mission of local, sustainable farms: you’re a member of your neighborhood food co-op; you shop at farmers markets; you subscribe to a regular CSA delivery; you spend your Saturdays crop-mobbing; and you eat in restaurants that are similarly committed to supporting local farmers.

Pat yourself on the back. You’re an informed and conscientious locavore – and darn proud of it. You care about your food’s origin, its environmental impact, and its connection to the community.

So, tell me: Is it possible to honor these values if you eat food that’s not grown within a 100-mile radius, maybe even a 1,000-mile radius, of where you live? Are you able to eat bananas, grapes and chocolate, and drink coffee and tea, with a clear conscience?

The story hit the mainstream media a couple of weeks ago. The Corn Refiners' Association (CRA) asked the Food and Drug Administration (FDA) for permission to use the term "corn sugar," rather than the much maligned "high fructose corn syrup" (HFCS) on food labels.

Raw milk. In the past month, no two words have caused more controversy on Simple, Good and Tasty than these. In the wake of an E.coli outbreak that's been linked to raw milk from a small, Minnesota dairy farm, we have seen our readers line up in two distinct camps: those who can’t understand why anyone would risk drinking raw milk, and those who can’t understand why anyone would drink anything else.

The content of today's blog post is the entire text of a news release I received yesterday. It is the official response from Michael and Diane Hartmann, owners of the Hartmann Dairy Farm, to charges that they sold raw milk that infected four people with E.coli 0157:H7. It is the only public statement that the Hartmanns have issued so far. Although I have talked to Michael Hartmann off-the-record twice since the story broke a few days ago, he has been advised to refrain from giving any public interviews.

I begin with a confession. I’m a mother and I don’t like Mother’s Day. There. I said it.

I know I'm not the only one. Admit it. You, too, think Mother's Day is another contrived holiday, a la Valentines’ Day, that pressures normally reasonable people to (a) buy silly, impersonal cards, (b) send pesticide-ridden flowers, (c) take their loved ones to crowded restaurants at odd times of the day because all the reservations at normal meal times (like before 10:00 p.m.) have been overbooked for six weeks.

Or (d) do something really outrageous, like make mom eat breakfast in bed.

Don't get me wrong. I love the original intent of breakfast in bed, but the right setting with the right company is crucial to its success. (Imagine, if you will, a romantic, lakeside inn; a bed pilled high with pillows, down comforters, and sheets I will never have to wash; and a passionate, pleasing and playful BFWB. You get the picture?)