Feast of St. Cholestera

December 14, 2014

It’s the time of year for food rituals. This week’s entry reprints a selection from the writing of Lisa Heldke. I was lucky enough to attend the Feast of St. Cholestera in St. Peter, MN this year. Here is a lengthy quote from Lisa’s announcement for this year’s Feast, which in true Thornapple Blog form, has absolutely nothing to say about St. Cholestra. If you are inclined, you can learn more about her HERE.

Reuters: European butter scientists’ hopes were dashed this week, when the probe they had managed to land on the surface of a pfeffernusse went dark, after just two days of transmitting data about the cookie.

To scientists, the pfeffernusse represents a unique glimpse into the ancient universe; they are among the oldest elements of that universe, for the simple reason that no one has ever eaten one, so they just keep circling the holidays from year to year, showing up to add a craggy, powdery ancient-universe touch to people’s festive cookie plates. “With this probe, we were really hoping to drill down, literally, and find out what the universe is really made of—and how it smells,” noted Einar Filmjolk, of the Culinary Cosmological Academy of Sweden.

Even though the scientists only were able to collect two days’ worth of data, those data revealed that much of what we thought we knew about the structure of the butter cookie was altogether too pat. “There’s just a whole lot more butter there than we would have thought, given the dry, almost arid appearance of the pfeffernusse,” stated Filmjolk. “No, we don’t know why. Give us time, for heaven’s sakes. We’re grieving here.” The scientist responded to reporters’ questions somewhat tartly, the strain of the previous days’ frantic work clearly having caught up on him.

Problems arose when the probe, whose batteries were to be recharged by the light of the last remaining incandescent light bulb in Europe (the location of which cannot be disclosed, due to its contraband nature) bounced, upon hitting the surface of the hard, rocklike cookie. When it landed the second time, it dislodged a shower of powdered sugar, which coated the receptacles that were to collect incandescent light, rendering them dysfunctional, not to mention sticky.

The results, to say the least, were devastating for the European team, which had hoped to collect decades of data from the pfeffernusse, which is arguably older than the Twinkie. “The information we could have gained about the origins of matter, time, space and, well, pretty much everything, just by studying the interior of a pfeffernuss, well, gosh, let’s just say that we’re pretty broken up about the whole thing,” said Harald Quark, of the Max Planck Institute of Dairy Science in Schleswig-Holstein.

Amidst all the disappointment, there is some small relief among the scientists who worked on the cookie probe. At least the landing did not destroy the integrity of the cookie, which was still intact after being hit by a probe twice. During previous landing attempts, “that’s the way the cookie crumbled,” reported Quark.

Paul B. Thompson is the W.K. Kellogg Professor of Agricultural, Food and Community Ethics at Michigan State University

Woo

December 7, 2014

This week I learned that science has figured out how to quantify woo. I was sitting around listening to a group of friends talking about some goofy HR instrument for classifying a person’s relative strengths and weaknesses in group interactions. They were saying that only one member of their team had “woo” as a strength. Now here comes a tangent. I was, of course, listening to this conversation, so my first challenge was simply to figure out what these people were saying. I mean one thought was that they were just dropping their L’s, in which case they were just talking about a co-worker who wore a lot of sweaters. (e.g. “She had wool.”) But that thought didn’t parse with the context, which also included other personality measures like “sensitivity” and “analytic ability”. So “wool” was out. But maybe this was an oblique reference to the Steely Dan classic “Dr. Wu”. Are you with me?

For those not with me, the song goes like this:

You walked in 
 And my life began again 
 Just when I'd spent the last piaster 
 I could borrow 
 All night long 
 We would sing that stupid song 
 And every word we sang 
 I knew was true

This might have also let me in for a nice food thing, because there actually is a Dr. Wu who writes on the wondrous benefits of juicing. Juicing itself would make for a nice tangent on a tangent, but denying yourself the opportunity to follow absolutely every tangent is pretty crucial to the Thornapple Blog. So tick that one off for this week.

The Steely Dan lyrics might be pointing to an idea that’s been picked up by a pretty popular Michigan band called Spontaneous Woo. I’ve never heard them (I’m old remember). This line of thinking would have at least gotten me to the right spelling, and maybe even into the ballpark, but spontaneous woo is musician’s jargon for a certain kind of audience reaction that causes the vibe to take off into the aesthetic stratosphere. For my generation, it was usually kicked off when someone in the back of the room would yell “Whippin’ Post” during a momentary lull. I note that it did not matter what band was playing that night, the implication being that any band would be complemented by a request to play a tune written, recorded and played by the Allman Brothers—a band which at their peak was noted for their ability to generate spontaneous woo.

Here we could launch into Gregg Allman’s vegetarian diet, but to stay on the woo trail like a bloodhound I’d better note that sometimes woo is another word for bogosity (itself a term for the quality of being bogus). Here, ‘woo’ is a diminutive of woo-woo, or perhaps just wooo. This is not what the HR crowd has learned to quantify. There’s also a group of physicians and foodies who have created something called a WooFood (or maybe it’s (Woo)Food) blog and certification system that’s pointing you to healthier eating, especially at restaurants. It’s interesting enough for me to provide a link to it, but it’s still not the “woo factor” that I was looking for.

The Internet tells me that there is also a band called Woo Factor, but we finally hit bingo when we get around to the recent book by Rachel Lee Strasberg. I haven’t read it, but the subtitle states pretty clearly what the HR types were after “Have Them Magnetically Attracted to Giving You What You Want”. That’s the quality that you’ve just got to have in a productive group of employees, it seems, and it’s a great advance of science to be able to quantify it.

As for me, I can attest that I was able to get a total stranger named Dorothy to give me what I wanted on a recent trip to a chain restaurant that is almost certainly NOT certified by (Woo) Food. What I wanted was a BigBoy, but I can’t say for sure whether she was magnetically attracted to give it to me or just sent over to take my order by the shift manager.

Paul B. Thompson is the W.K. Kellogg Professor of Agricultural, Food and Community Ethics at Michigan State University

Still Yet Another Key Blog

November 30, 2014

It’s the Sunday after Thanksgiving. Sometime today I have to sit down and write another “key blog”. I have to provide links to previous key blogs last year, the year before and also the year before that. Above all, I have to encourage readers to follow a link all the way back to 2009, when the Thornapple Blog debuted on the Sunday after Thanksgiving. I still think of that first blog as laying out the groundwork for what I’ve been trying to do for the last five years. I have to say something about the punning reference to Aldo Leopold’s discussion of the key log in his book A Sand County Almanac. It’s the one that’s keeping things jammed up, and for Leopold it was the tendency to think of land merely as a form of property. Maybe the key log in food ethics is to let food become too thoroughly governed by property rights and the norms of market exchange.

Everybody needs food, after all. It hardly matters whether or not you have the means to pay for it. If you broke with the Ferguson ban and joined the throngs on Black Friday this year, perhaps you can still appreciate the thought that someone who doesn’t have the money for a new electronic gadget should probably figure out how to get along without it. The same thing doesn’t apply in the case of food, at least not in the most basic case. Sure we could get along without that ridiculously expensive Irish butter we’ve taken to buying, but food itself. You’ve got to have it.

So that moves right along to the thought that we (and here I mean “society”) should not allow the norms of market exchange to determine whether or not people get food. There used to be a pretty broad agreement in America on that point, though these days I’m less and less confident of that. There was plenty of disagreement about how we insure that people’s food needs get met. Some people insisted that those who have undertake a personal moral obligation to meet the needs of those who have not. Another point of view held that this way of proceeding puts the have-nots in a morally unacceptable position of dependence on the whims of the wealthy. Meeting food needs is a matter of justice, and no one should be put in the position of needing to beg.

The original key blog had an orientation to environmental responsibility. Leopold’s thought had it that you can’t just let the use land be determined by whatever it is that allows someone to make a buck. Like using your farm to grow corn for biofuels when people are going hungry, for example. Not that I’m deeply opposed to biofuels, mind you, but I am opposed to the view that whether or not this is the most profitable use a farmer can make of his land settles the matter. Writing in the late 1940’s Leopold was less focused on biofuels than he was on biodiversity. He wanted farmers to create habitats for flora and fauna well beyond their cash crops. Thinking only in terms of land as property tends to get in the way of that.

I agree, and that’s why I’m still writing a food ethics blog five years later.

Paul B. Thompson is the W.K. Kellogg Professor of Agricultural, Food and Community Ethics

Plastic Houses

November 23, 2014

There’s an old saying to the effect that people who live in glass houses should not throw stones. Good advice for bloggers, I think. If you are “out there” and visible, you should think twice about digging in to someone for something that you could be dug into yourself. There’s also a variation on the adage that has something to do with grass houses and ends with the admonition “…shouldn’t stow thrones.” Figuring out what that has to do with a food ethics blog would be a fine tangent for this week, don’t you think?

But as has become my custom of late, I resist the temptation to make sense of that to get right along with the main theme for the week, which has nothing to do with bloggers who expose their own vulnerabilities (not that I would ever do that) or glass houses, for that matter (though here we are getting nearer to the point). The point such as it is being not glass but plastic houses.

Thanks to my friend John Biernbaum plastic houses are all the rage among sustainable agriculture types here in Michigan. Of course no self-respecting hippie farmer would refer to them as plastic houses. They’re high tunnels or low tunnels (depending on whether they are high or low) or maybe it’s the hippie farmer who’s high or low. They’re also hoop houses. This would not need explanation if you have actually seen one of these babies. A bunch of my students and I went up to the UP earlier this summer to help John build a particularly big one, and I was caught on film (well maybe it was pixels) with a sledgehammer in my hand putting up the support for one of those hoops. I wish I could put that photo in my annual report.

So even though us calloused hands, sledge-hammer swinging, hard-working, dirt on the face sustainable farmer types wouldn’t literally live in one of these plastic houses, the whole routine about not throwing stones would still be highly relevant. Holes are a bad thing. They kind of screw up the whole convection heating phenomenon that allows Michigan farmers to grow spinach or broccoli well into this time of the year. Maybe not this year, because it has been so damn cold, but you know what I mean.

But stones thrown, thrones stowed or what have you, a hoop house is going to occasionally need some first-order maintenance. Which basically means another plastic sheet big enough to cover the whole damn thing. Not cheap, mind you, but also something that requires a whole raft of people just to maneuver around and actually get on top of the skeleton so that it can be fastened down to keep the little budlings toasty when it’s freezing outside. And that whole raft of people thing brings me to my true and honest reason for posting a Thornapple blog (aside from the fact that it’s Sunday). Which is that it’s time for the hoophouse out at Appleschram farm where we grow veggies for the Thornapple CSA to get a new sheet of plastic.

The big event is scheduled on Wednesday from 3 to 4 in the afternoon, assuming the wind is not blowing too hard. Cold will not deter us, but wind well might. If you’ve longed to be part of barn-raising on the day before Thanksgiving, this may be as close as you’re going to get this year. Call Diane (you know the number) if you have any questions, and bring your own sledgehammer if you are in it for the photo op.

Paul B. Thompson is the W. K. Kellogg Professor of Agricultural, Food and Community Ethics at Michigan State University.

 

Embarrassing Behavior

November 16, 2014

I made one of my contributions to the food movement this week stopping by McDonald’s for my once-a-year Big Mac. This observation could provoke a tangent on the “once-a-year” theme and whether or not my need to point that out reflects some sort of guilt feelings about frequenting such an icon of the industrial food system. But I don’t think I’ll head in that direction this morning. Take note of it, though because that thought is definitely worth a blog or two sometime in the future. I might have had a thought about the political implications of eating that Big Mac down on Grand River in East Lansing, and I generally do take a quick inventory of “what have I been eating lately” that’s roughly health-related before I decide what to do for lunch. But I wasn’t deeply worried about being seen at McDonald’s, or what people would say when they saw me carrying my McDonald’s cup down the hall of the Natural Resources Building after lunch. Or in full disclosure, it would have been the “industrial food system” thing that would have been on my mind had one of my garbology colleagues encountered the McDonald’s cup in my trash bin, rather than some deep indicator of my class identity. Perhaps they might think I’m not showing a proper commitment to “sticking it to The Man”.

But I wouldn’t have worried about them thinking that I was tainted by a lower-class value system. Maybe that’s because I still hang out with old hippies for whom being pegged as having lower-class values is a badge of distinction. Yet it was not like I was actually hoping that someone would see me flouting my déclassé McDonald’s cup, either. In fact, the only reason I become conscious that this little episode in my week might be blogworthy came later when I was listening to Marketplace on NPR. They were discussing how Pizza Hut was trying to “rebrand” itself as a more upscale place, and expressing doubts that it would work. They noted that all the trendy hipsters frequenting my classroom are heading to Chipotle in search of that “fast casual” vibe. Restaurant chains like Red Lobster or Olive Garden are really sucking wind in the current economic environment because they are too expensive for their former customers (who have seen too many years of stagnant growth in wages) and not hip enough for the fast casual crowd. You can read more about this take on food and identity in Forbes Magazine.

The radio analysts were saying that McDonald’s had already tried a rebranding strategy by upgrading their coffee and offering salads, but that it hadn’t really worked. It seems that the people who go to McDonald’s are still pretty much focused on getting the most for their food dollar. And it was then that I realized how embarrassing it is for my friends when I show up with that McDonald’s cup. I mean it’s not just my own image I have to worry about if I’m going to be a beacon of food ethics, don’t you know. Every parent experiences a phenomenon explained by Erving Goffman back in the late fifties: you have to be sensitive to the way that your everyday self is a performance in multiple little overlapping dramas. As far as your kids are concerned, you are expected to be “uncool” but there are limits, after all, and you need to learn what it is that will cause them to lose face in that pressure cooker of identity construction we know as the junior high or middle school.

So I’m writing this week to apologize to all my friends and colleagues in the Natural Resources building at MSU. Next year when I go to McDonald’s for my annual Big Mac, I’ll take off my socks and put one over the McDonald’s cup. Walking down the hall in a coat and tie with no socks won’t be a problem, will it?

Paul B. Thompson is the W.K. Kellogg Chair in Agricultural, Food and Community Ethics at Michigan State University

 

The Movement

November 9, 2014

Last week I watched an old BBC documentary about Jacques-Louis David’s famous painting “The Death of Marat.” (Since this puts us in late 18th century France, it will help if you silently pronounce David as Dah-VEED and Marat as Mah-RAH throughout the rest of this blog.) Simon Schama was prattling on about how Marat was whipping up enthusiasm not only against the royals but also a growing number of counter-revolutionaries. You have to be literate in the battle between Jacobins and Girondists to follow this story in its details and if you are like me you have trouble telling the difference between a radical revolutionary and a white-collared hummingbird. Let’s just say that as the Jacobins held power during a brief interval during the 1790s, being thought moderate was not a particularly laudable (or for that matter, healthy) form of repute. Those advocating moderation were likely to lose their heads. Marat had been something of a hero among the radicals, hiding out in the sewers of Paris in order to escape the authorities during the waning years of the monarchy. When the Jacobins came to power he became one of the most vociferous in calling for purity of revolutionary zeal. Schama, who has argued that violence was inherent in the very origins of the French Revolution, agrees with many others who now regard Marat as the very paradigm of irresponsible radicalism.

But I digress. The film was about this painting by David, which Schama regards as a masterpiece despite his (Schama’s, that is) revulsion at its message. David, who was (I learned) right in there with Marat, Robespierre and the other white-collared hummingbirds, painted it to memorialize Marat after his assassination by one Charlotte Courday. “The Death of Marat” was, if we believe Schama, a singular example of art’s ability to galvanize public opinion and motivate action. You probably know this painting even if you don’t have any recollection of David or Marat. Marat had been stabbed in his bath and is depicted holding an apparently fictionalized note from Courday in which she pleads for his assistance. Schama’s film made me recall another even older art documentary where Robert Hughes prattled on about the way that art could mobilize the emotions, but not in any particularly justifiable direction. The same tropes were used by fascists and communists in the 1930s with opposite messages but equally effective results.

But the French Revolution hit me because it is, after all, the granddaddy of all social movements. And if you are at all active in the food world these days, you are consistently being hit over the head by the putatively rising “food movement.” This is, I think, what lots of people would presume that food ethics is predominantly about. I hasten to add that I didn’t get up on a chilly November morning to diss the activism of my friends and comments, but maybe “The Death of Marat” helps me make some sense of that little chill that runs up and down my spine when someone starts talking about how to promote the food movement.

Or maybe it’s something less noble. Maybe it’s the way that the phrase “food movement” seems to spontaneously evoke an association with my bowels. I’m fearful that when someone starts trying to enroll me in the food movement, I’ll lose my head and end up shat out into the toilet.

Paul B. Thompson is the W.K. Kellogg Professor of Agricultural, Food and Community Ethics at Michigan State University

Fun Size Redux

Nov. 2, 2014

So here it is just two days after Halloween night, and I’m thinking that both readers of the blog are probably sitting there munching on little tiny candy bars as they peruse the blog this Sunday. Of course there’s the chance that you aren’t reading the blog on it’s posting date, but if that’s the case, just pretend and go along with the “tiny candy bars” theme. As this week’s title suggests, we’ve hit this theme before, but that was mostly for comic effect. This time I’m going to exploit your guilt feelings over eating all those tiny little candy bars that you either pilfered from your kids Halloween treat bag or, in my case, failed to distribute to the neighbor kids who came around for Trick or Treat. Of course there’s the chance that you don’t feel any guilt, but if that’s the case, just pretend and go along with the “I feel bad about stuffing my face with tiny candy bars” theme.

You are not going to find very many nutrition experts who will step forward to assuage your guilt. It was a couple of years ago that I blogged about having dinner with Walter Willet from Harvard’s School of Public Health. It’s possible that Willet would forgive a once a year splurge on tiny candy bars, but I’m betting we are way past that now, seeing as how it’s pretty likely that you had a few of these bad boys right on Halloween night as you were dishing them out to the little ghosts and goblins that were ringing your doorbell. You might have been nibbling on them for over a week now. And since it’s the second day after Halloweeen, you probably had a face full yesterday, didn’t you? So we’re well beyond the “once a year” forgiveness policy. Those candy bars are “bad for you” because they are full of “empty calories”. They’re full of refined sugar and they very likely have a fair amount of fat, as well.

So to link this up with the last couple of blogs on nutritional science, these tiny little candy bars are, in the mindset of nutritional reductionism, bad, bad, bad because of their nutrient structure, or to put it another way, their “nutrient density.” I should probably step forward and confess that I got onto this stream of nutrition related consciousness because I was reading Gyorgy Scrinis’ book Nutritionism. It put forward lots of ideas (which we noted on October 19), and then I felt obligated to hit another lick last week by explaining what Scrinis was talking about when he referred all this to a problem in “reductionist philosophy of science”. We did a short and probably quite obscure bit on “socially relevant philosophy of science” two years ago at about this time, so I’m just taking an opportunity to knit multiple themes together this morning by pointing out that there really was a “take-home ethics” point to these philosophically obscure musings. To wit: deep connections in how we do science can come back to bite us in the butt when they become embedded in our practical mindset, not to mention public policy.

Of course, I’m not at all sure how this relates to tiny little candy bars. It’s not like Scrinis’s revelations about the reductionism in nutrition is going to excuse this kind of dietary excess, especially when it continues for more than a week. If either of my regular readers decides to plow through Nutritionism, they’ll discover that he probably would complain about the fact that tiny little candy bars are examples of highly refined and processed food. They are “miscellaneous edible objects.” The point of nutritionism is that it actually provides a number of ways that you could work your way to exonerating tiny little candy bars because, for instance, they actually don’t do all that bad when you are focused on the glycemic index. Tiny little candy bars are “gluten-free.” Or maybe you could add some vitamins or Omega 3 fatty acids and claim that they are functional foods! Scrinis wants to tell us that a focus on nutrients and food components gives the food industry too many “outs”, too many ways to divert our attention from the way that tiny little candy bars are not really food at all. I’m sorry if this spoils your morning, but don’t worry. Those leftover Halloween treats won’t last forever.

Paul B. Thompson is the W.K. Kellogg Professor of Agricultural, Food and Community Ethics at Michigan State University

Reductionism

October 26, 2014

One of the things that I had to learn in order to become a certified Doctor of Philosophy in the discipline of epismetology was how to use the word “reductionism” in utterly confounding and totally obscure ways. Like, “Reductionism is a program of research dating back to the 17th century where the goal was to ultimately explain all human behavior in terms of brain processes and physiology, to explain such biological activity in terms of chemical reactions and finally to explain chemistry in terms of physical laws.” E.g. and for example, making everything (including aspects of our own lives that we think of as totally voluntary or a result of “free will”) totally deterministic causal regularities. This is a fair enough characterization of what the word “reductionism” means in some contexts but neither regular reader of the Thornapple blog will be particularly surprised to learn that it really doesn’t have too much to do with what I sat down to write about this morning.

Some academic types and a few ordinary people will say that something is “reductionistic” when key value judgments are either omitted or deliberately obscured. Like when some people in medical science will say that “health” is a purely objective term, as if nature really cared whether an organism was alive or dead, and it was possible to derive an account of “health” without placing a positive value on certain biophysical states we think of as “good functioning” or disvaluing other states we think of as diseased. What this mainly goes to show is that you can expect pretty long sentences whenever some fool steps forward and declares that they will tell you what reductionism is.

But some time ago (or maybe it was just last week) we were blogging about the reductionist turn in nutrition science. In this context, reductionism means the scientific practice of assuming that all questions in nutrition can be answered by research that isolates particular components of food and that uses the methods of statistical correlation to verify causal relationships between the consumption of these components and states of bodily health. Reductionist nutrition scientists might also commit the aforementioned fallacy of presuming that they can define health apart from making some value judgments, but this particular kind of nutritional reductionism doesn’t necessarily imply that. We might derive our accounts of “health” by making some pretty non-controversial value judgments (e.g. it’s better to be alive than dead), and then go forward from there to quantify nutrition by researching how consumption of this nutrient or that one contributes being alive, rather than dead.

Of course, if we are going to use a word like “reductionism” we very likely don’t approve of this practice. I’ve run into more than a couple of scientists who were proud to say that they were being reductionistic in their work, but more often than not, reductionism implies some kind of mistake. In the case of nutrition, the mistake would not be in thinking that certain components—nutrients—can cause good or ill health. I mean the discovery that certain states of disease—rickets and scurvy come to mind—are the result of vitamin deficiencies would pretty much refute that hypothesis. No, it’s the broader claim that everything worth knowing about nutrition can be discovered by research on the presence, absence or appropriate amounts of “nutrients” that Gyorgy Scrinis had in mind when he coined the term “nutritionism.”

It’s not clear that any nutritionists ever endorse a claim quite this broad, so let’s just call that an extreme view that we introduce just to make a point. A more realistic discussion of reductionism in nutritional science might take a step back from the precipice. We could say that reductionism is or at least was evident in the research programs that dominated nutrition for five or six decades. Whatever nutrition scientists might have wanted to say about whether foods in combination or whether the quality of foods played any role in health, the only thing they were really looking at in their research was specific single components. And if Scrinis is right in his history of nutrition science, that might be a fair indictment.

Paul B. Thompson is the W. K. Kellogg Professor of Agricultural, Food and Community Ethics at Michigan State University

Connectedness

October 19, 2014

I met Gyorgy Scrinis in Melbourne a couple of years ago. He was complaining more than a little bit about Michael Pollan’s appropriation of the word “nutritionism” and with it some of Scrinis’s key ideas in Pollan’s book In Defense of Food. At the time I met him, all I knew of Scrinis’s work was a chapter that he had contributed to David Kaplan’s book Food and Philosophy. There Scrinis was using tools from the philosophy of science to notice a few interesting things about trends in nutritional science and its applications in dietary advice.

And there are oh so many directions we can go from here! There’s the straight up message that Scrinis wanted to get across: Nutritional science took a classically reductionist turn relatively early in the 20th century from which it has never recovered. We could talk about what that means, or we could just assume that both of my regular readers already know that and go straight for the way it has encouraged a series of narrow and fallacious messages about healthy eating habits. Or entirely different from that, but very much in line with some of Scrinis’s other messages, we could talk about how the food industry has been able to surf deftly along the intersecting waves of this advice. That’s a line that would connect a bit too neatly with the last two blogs, and “neat connections” being something that we imbibe in moderation here at the Thornapple blog, I suppose that one has already been effectively ruled out by tradition, if not policy.

Another rather different direction would be to unpack Scrinis’s complaints about Michael Pollan. This came up in a conversation I was having with Don Thompson earlier this week. Of course, there’s no way either reader of the blog would have any way of knowing who Don Thompson is, so here I go introducing yet another tangent. Let me just cut this one off at the knees by saying that Don is not related to me (identical last names notwithstanding) and that he has a longstanding and well-informed interest in the ethics of nutrition and nutrition policy. Of course I can’t really expect that this phrase “nutrition policy” is particularly meaningful either, so here we go on yet another tangent. Which I will cut off by saying that governments have long been involved in making official dietary recommendations (such as the fondly recalled “food pyramid”) and being rather “hands on” in terms of structuring what kids will eat in public school lunchrooms. Nuff’ said.

As I recall, one of Scrinis’ complaints about In Defense of Food is that Pollan both “borrowed” some Scrinis’ ideas about reductionist nutrition science, but basically ignored Scrinis’ main point, which is to see how it was implicated in misbegotten government policies. But then, Pollan his own self goes on to fill up a large percentage of In Defense of Food by offering dietary advice that was based pretty much on the same science that the “nutritionism” critique was intended to expose! It was a little hard to tell whether he (Scrinis) was more peeved that Pollan had twisted his message or that he (Pollan, now) had failed to give him (Scrinis) adequate credit for coming up with the ideas in the first place. This could, of course, be the basis for a pretty good 600 word Thornapple blog in its own right (or write, as the case may be), but at this point we are already approaching 590 words this week, so it’s probably too late to make yet another turn in direction.

So I’ll just wrap up by saying that it all goes to show how food is able to connect and tie together so many different ethical themes. And we didn’t’ even say a word about farming this week. It’s amazing, and it promises to keep self-appointed food ethicists in business for a long time.

Paul B. Thompson holds the W.K. Kellogg Chair in Agricultural, Food and Community Ethics at Michigan State University

Why Make Exploitation Easy?

October 12, 2014

Whenever either of my regular readers sees that I end the Thornapple blog with a question like I did last week, they halfway expect me to come back and answer the question in the next blog. Or maybe that’s going a little far. It’s not like we ever answer very many questions here. But maybe it signals that there’s more to come.

So of course my lefty friends are steaming about the flippancy with which we dismissed the food industry’s ability to turn resistance to its advantage last week. And when I say, “Am I missing something?” they are right there with “Of course, you dolt! You’re missing the systemic nature of this distortion and it’s grounding in the power relationships that structure a capitalist food system.”

Now I must confess that I’m strongly inclined to go off on a tangent on how pleasing it is to write a blog where you get to use the word “dolt”, or perhaps riffing on its 16th century origins. That would take me back to the bread riots in England, where villagers were protesting what they took to be exorbitant increases in the price of grain. They were missing something, too. The usual reason for a good old fashioned peasant riot owed to an unexpected and unjustified exertion of manorial power. Like the landlord showing up with a giant-size basket to collect his share of the crop, and then showing up with peasant sized baskets when it was time to dispense alms for the poor. It reminds me of my daughter Dory’s outsized Christmas stocking, save for the fact that Santa was wise to this trick, and not vulnerable to the power exerted by 16th century landlords.

But unlike the usual outrage perpetrated by landlords, the bread riots were due to what we today would blithely call a “market-based” rise in the cost of grain. It seems that there were some key elements of trade even in the manorial system, and what the peasants did with their own share of a crop after filling the landlord’s basket was one of them. In the old days, they had been confined pretty much to the local village marketplace—often a single miller and baker. This was mainly because the roads were so bad that they simply couldn’t take a heavy load of grain someplace else. But better roads and canals coming along in the 16th century made it possible to haul grain to the next village in search of a better price. And with that kind of flexibility, prices might go up. Sometimes by a lot.

It took a while, but it gradually began to dawn on people that their outrage needed to be diverted from their landlords (who were, it must be admitted, quite capable of exploiting the new system to their advantage, even if there was some plausible story suggesting that they weren’t responsible for the soaring price of food) and toward “the system,” “the marketplace” “the merchants” and hence toward capitalism as a vague generic Dark Tower that needed to be overthrown on moral grounds. So I guess this isn’t as much of a tangent as I thought.

I guess I should confess that as a college professor I don’t necessarily define my role in life as one of creating a general consciousness of system abuses among my undergraduates. Nor do I presume that I should be encouraging them to define their role as one of resistance to the injustice inherent in the system. It’s not because I don’t see the injustice in the system, mind you. I just expect that a goodly portion of the smiling faces out there are anxious to take their place in that system. So teaching them how any form of resistance can be turned to benefit the powers-that-be is just making it too easy for them. If that makes me a dolt, so be it.

Paul B. Thompson is the W.K. Kellogg Professor of Agricultural, Food and Community Ethics at Michigan State University