But Can We Blame Them?

April 19 2015

We’ve been exploring how the Evil Empire (e.g. the food industry) can be held responsible for the increase in obesity and the decline of public health for the last two weeks. This week we pause to remind ourselves that the food industry has done all these things because they are trying to make a buck. However much we might despise a real living and breathing human being who allows greed to overcome his or her moral sensibility, we pause to remind ourselves that “the food industry” isn’t a real living and human being. Sure, there are real living and breathing human beings who work in the food industry, but their jobs involve figuring out how to make a buck for the firms they work for. And they are very good at their jobs, as the blogs of the last two weeks attest.

I come back to this in the context of food ethics because my lefty friends are deeply troubled by it. The rightwingers in my social circle hardly think about it at all, and that’s their problem. But this week we are ministering to the outrage and blistering vituperation that only a properly exercised leftwing radical can generate. Sure, they’re usually focused on social justice—the fact that poor people go hungry or the way that workers in the food industry are exploited and underpaid. But just mention that food industry firms have been working hard to figure how to make us eat more and more of stuff that we should be eating in high moderation (to the extent that we should be eating it all) and you will be met with a sputtering, exasperated desultory philippic about the venality and irresponsibility of profit seeking firms. It’s like the smell of napalm in the morning (God! How I love it!).

Of maybe they won’t, and that’s what I wanted to blog about today. No one is actually better at telling the story of why we shouldn’t expect anything other than pure profit seeking behavior from the commercial sector than a committed lefty. Or perhaps I should say that no one is better unless it would be a radical lefty. Any sociology major you happen to meet on the street can give you a very convincing explanation of why the capitalist system rewards—and because of that perpetuates—organizations that devise new ways to increase the ROI. This includes for profit firms, to be sure, but it’s not limited to them. The beauty of capitalism is the way that other organizations—schools, churches, government agencies—can be situated so that they, too, ensure that no opportunity to increase the return to financial or fixed capital can be upped a little bit, even when it means taking food out of the mouths of babies (or what amounts to the same thing, depriving future generations of the quality soil that they will need to grow their food). When you’ve got this kind of system in place, you expect food industry firms to find ways to make you eat more, like concealing the amount you are actually consuming in a big fat juicy beefsteak. You expect them to find ways to make a bigger dollar by substituting whatever cheap crap they can for higher quality ingredients, and to use both advertising and chemical additives to make sure you don’t notice it. If the system is what is making them do that, how can we blame them?

So the moral of this story is that if you are a leftwing radical who was about to write your own blog about how Thompson is just an apologist for the Evil Empire when he says in the Thornapple Blog that “Well, duh! Food industry firms aren’t such a candidate for being held morally responsible for obesity after all,” remember this: I got it all from you in the first place.

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

Chemistry

 

April 12, 2015

Oops! Unless you are one of the two readers who frequent this locus on bi-weekly to monthly basis, it seems that a random web-search may have landed you right in the midst of a long stream of consciousness rant on ethical dietetics. It began with some thoughts on being hospitable, but turned quickly to the overriding concern that we (and by “we” I mean humans) have with the effect of what we eat on ourselves. We are, it seems, predominantly self-interested when it comes to what we are and are not putting into our mouths. And then we veered over to emphasize the impact of dietary choices on our personal health. Moving right through the obvious thought that what we eat is primarily up to us (and hence it’s oneself you should blame when things go badly), last week we looked at the equally obvious thought that the food industry’s constant exhortations and inducements for eating more, more, more provide an alternative hypothesis for assigning blame.

We said then (and by “then” I mean last week) there was not one but two ways that the food industry could be held accountable for the bad dietary decisions that people have been making of late. And the other one, the alternative to making us eat more, more, more, has to do with what it is that we are eating. I think (and by “think” I mean suspect) that this hypothesis is a bit less obvious than the “more, more, more” hypothesis, but in the wake of dietary exposes by Eric Schlosser (Fast Food Nation), Marion Nestle (Food Politics), Michael Pollan (The Omnivore’s Dilemma & In Defense of Food) and David Kessler (The End of Overeating) mentioning it in the Thornapple blog may be yet another instance of futile redundancy. Everyone already knows.

Neither of my regular readers will be surprised to find me saying that this turns out to be a more complex hypothesis than might at first appear. First, it overlaps with “more, more, more” quite a bit in that the shift in what people eat coincides with the food industry’s promotion of a “cheap, cheap, cheap” dietetics. They had allies here, not the least of whom would have been Calvinists who believed that spending money on something so base as food was just a form of showing off. Piety is to be found in penny-pinching and in avoiding the display of wealth or good fortune. But that’s a story for a different blog. For now we are maintaining that laser-beam focus on the food industry. In that context, “cheap, cheap, cheap” meant potatoes, potatoes, potatoes, as well as cooking absolutely everything you can in the deep fat fryer.

The more interesting ways in which the food industry changed what we eat have a basis in science. To wit, a good half century or more of research in flavor chemistry, augmented by studies of bizarre things like “mouth-feel”. I’ll bet you can take an entire course on mouth-feel at my university, but I’m too lazy to sort through the catalog looking for it. All the authors listed above talk about this, but Kessler is particularly good on the way that food science searched for that perfect combination of the sweet-salty-crunchy-fatty goodie that would be absolutely impossible for a creature with the evolutionary history of homo sapiens to resist. I blogged about this a few years back in connection with a donut special I happened to pass during one of my too-frequent visits to a large metropolitan airport.

The take-home point here is simply that the food industry has deployed the tools of chemistry, medicine and behavioral science to figure out recipes that are going to pull our chains. It would have been comparatively rare for humans to encounter these combinations of tasty and appealing foodstuffs during the caveman days, or even in 1952, for that matter. It might have even made sense to put on a bit of fat when the chance is right in front of you when human societies were encountering food shortages once or twice in every decade. How can we possibly be expected to do anything but consume these products today?

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

The Fires of Mordor

April 5, 2015

We’re right in the middle of a multi-week theme here at the Thornapple Blog, so if you are just dropping in you might find it helpful to go all the way back to February if you want to get the full treatment. But the synopsis is that we’re taking a dive into moral dietetics: the ethics of what you choose to eat, and we’re focusing especially on the way that what you choose to eat affects you, rather than someone else. This points us directly to overeating (though we should probably come back and do undereating sooner or later). I’ve been trying to resist the idea that overweight people have no one to blame but themselves.

So let me just make things easy this week by pointing to the most popular alternative. If obesity is not just a problem of poor decision making by individuals, we need to find some other way to explain why people are getting fat in unusually large numbers. If we find that the increasing rate of obesity has been caused by something other than a lot of spectacularly bad behavior by people acting one by one on their own initiative, then we can replace the individualistic theory of ethical responsibility for unhealthy eating habits with some better account.

And the most popular alternative is: THE FOOD INDUSTRY! This would be a theme we’ve touched upon many times in the Thronapple Blog. People are getting fat because the conglomeration of industrial farming, industrial scale milling, slaughtering, processing and distribution companies, the food manufacturers and finally the retailers (in the form of grocery and restaurant chains) are doing things that cause people to eat badly.

I think there is absolutely no doubt that this is true, but the tricky part comes because there are many rather different ways in which it is true. And here’s a warning: it’s going to take me a couple of more weeks to tire of this theme, and even then I won’t really have exhausted things.

So for this week—again with the idea of keeping things simple—let’s just start out that there are two big lines of thought to follow through when we probe how the food industry is the cause of people eating badly. The first is that people are eating the wrong food, the second is that whatever they are eating, they are eating too much. My sense is that food activists have sort of picked up primarily on the first line of thought. We’ll come back and revisit that in another blog down the road, so for now let’s just close off this week’s entry by noticing some dead obvious things about eating too much.

First, eating has become incredibly convenient of late. A few weeks back we noticed that the auto industry had to accommodate their product line to the convenience of food by adding cupholders to their vehicles. Even the French and Germans have done this, at least on the models that they sell in the United States. If it were not so incredibly easy to pull in and scarf a taco, some fries or shake, it’s entirely reasonable to think that people might not do it with such insane frequency.

Second, the food industry itself is maniacally proud of how inexpensive food has become. Back in 1965, a McDonald’s hamburger cost 15¢. It was 240 ready calories for nothing but pocket change, and certainly marked a step in the direction of eating more for less. If we just take inflation into account, the McDonald’s hamburger should cost $1.13 in today’s money. It’s actually more than that now, but you do have some choices at the Golden Arches. In 2015 the McDonald’s “Dollar Menu” boasts four hot food items. The McDouble with 340 calories, the double cheeseburger with 380 calories, the McChicken sandwich with 370 calories and an order of chicken McNuggets with an astonishing 940 calories. The healthiest thing on the Dollar Menu would be the soft baked oatmeal raisin cookie at only 150 calories.

In 2015, you’ll have to spend more to eat less. I know, I know. It’s obvious, but our love of obscurity notwithstanding here at the Thornapple blog, it doesn’t hurt to state the obvious now and again.

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

Dietary Impulses

March 29, 2015

I have an ongoing disagreement with one of my friends at work about incontinence. It usually comes up in connection with the question of how we should think of obesity as an ethical problem. There are some important tangents that could be pursued here—like the sense in which being overweight is really a moral problem or a matter of personal prudence. But I’ll try to resist the tangents this morning, even at the risk of being even more boring than usual. At least you know that in the Thornapple Blog the tedium does not go on for long.

So to put the point as directly as I can, my friend thinks that being overweight is no one’s fault but one’s own. Everyone has a duty to pursue a healthy diet. This implies eating the right foods—a balance of fruits and vegetables, with (in my friend’s case) moderate portions of animal protein. She’s not opposed to vegetarianism, by the way, but that would be another tangent. More to the point, that nutritional category she describes as “sweets and snacks” should be consumed only as the occasional treat. My friend is actually a biochemist, by the way. The fact that “proteins,” “fats” and “carbohydrates” can be given good scientific definitions, while “sweets and snacks” cannot does not deter her. She knows a sweet or a snack when she sees one. When some fool brings a whole tray of sweets and snacks to a business meeting and incontinently throws them out in front of everyone, well that’s precisely when a strong food ethic should intervene and prevent the virtuous person from taking more than the tiniest portion. An ethical person might have a pretzel or an M&M or two just to acknowledge the hospitality implicit within such an otherwise inappropriate gesture, but an ethical person would never indulge in an entire brownie on such an occasion.

We move on from this basic picture to a more general social ethic by inferring that the rise of diet-related disease (heart disease and diabetes, especially) is the result of a widespread moral failure on the part of individuals. People are just not living up to their basic responsibility to resist the urge to get up and get that bag of Fritos out of the cabinet when they are watching late-night TV. Or maybe their moral failure comes when they fail to resist the urge to put that bag of Fritos in their grocery cart, in the first place. On my friend’s view both types of failure are all of a piece. What’s called for in either case is a strong moral will, and evidently fewer and fewer people have it.

I’m not so sure, but as usual my tendency to recognize complicating factors comes at the cost of directness and clarity. In the spirit of resisting tangents this morning, I will confine myself to just one complicating factor, and I will warn you that this may not be very convincing.

My friend’s picture just doesn’t square with the basic phenomenology of dietary impulse for me. Now here I can’t avoid one tangent: explaining what I mean by the phenomenology of dietary impulse. It’s simply this: a detailed and disciplined attempt to describe the experience of getting that bag of Fritos out of the cabinet, or if you prefer, putting it into the cart. One reason why I think my friend’s account doesn’t stand up is that I would describe these two impulses quite differently. I had that impulse to eat some Fritos just last night, for example. One key feature is its constancy. Some would call it a craving. It’s not a momentary thought, “Gee, some Fritos would taste great right now.” Nope. It’s more like a drive that doesn’t actually require any thought at all. The shopping cart thing, in contrast, is a momentary thought.

That get up and eat something impulse is different from the shopping cart impulse because it lingers. My body knows how to find Fritos and I don’t really have to think about it. The effect of conscious thought is to interrupt that habit. (This does, by the way, have something to do with Aristotle’s notion of incontinence—but that’s a tangent). One important feature of that drive is that even if there are no Fritos in the cabinet, I’ll find myself eating something, anyway. Usually it’s something even more disgusting—like that little bag of crusty marshmallows that’s been sitting stuffed back in the corner for seven years.

In fact, last night (and this doesn’t always work out so nicely, I’ll admit) I got up, had two or three Fritos and put the bag right back where it came from. Craving satisfied and no serious damage done. Crusty marshmallows never entered the picture and the impulse to buy those Fritos was vindicated. At least for this time.

(I warned you it wouldn’t be convincing.)

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

Incontinence

March 22, 2015

Well, I spent a few hours reading Aristotle this week, and you know that spells trouble for both readers of the Thornapple blog. I just couldn’t resist Googling ‘incontinence’. It turns out that Wikipedia has a disambiguation page for ‘incontinence’. Who knew? One link refers to a 1981 album by Fad Gadget. I’m sorry, but even in 1981 I was not hipster enough to be into Fad Gadget. In 1971 I probably would have been attracted to an album entitled ‘Incontinence’, even if I had never heard of the band that put it out. I remember once when I came across an “all whistling” album by Pat Boone in the bargain bin at Peaches. Somehow, I resisted that one, and today I wish I hadn’t. I bet it’s worth a fortune. By 1981 I already had other types of incontinence on my mind.

So I picked the title for this week’s blog to lure my readers into the suspicion that I was going to make some sophomoric observation between food ethics and the link on Wikipedia’s disambiguation page that takes you to ‘fecal incontinence’. But not so fast, Chucko! There are four (count ‘em, four) types of incontinence identified by the astute and inquiring authors of Wikipedia (e.g. you, me and Bill). In addition to the two already discussed there is also urinary incontinence, which might also suggest sophomoric tangents, but is also not where we are headed this Sunday. Today it’s Wikipedia’s fourth possibility which (and I quote) takes us to the Wikipedia page entitled “Incontinence (philosophy)”. Once there one finds an entire three sentences under the heading “Aristotle”. Proving that I’m not the dumb cluck you might have thought I was.

This rather short article in Wikipedia also includes references to St. Augustine, Spenser and Jane Austin. In each case incontinence means allowing oneself to be overcome by a controlling passion, especially with respect to bodily enjoyment. Incontinence is thus a fairly basic problem for ethics and you really shouldn’t be surprised to see it coming up in connection to food. Being overcome by the temptations of sumptuous (or even just physically present) food is a pretty familiar experience in the food rich environment of 21st century post-industrial society. Having the feeling that you really shouldn’t indulge in that blueberry donut, those chili cheese fries or that crème brûlée must have occurred to the majority of people with a readily available Internet connection. Although there are definitions of ethics which would suggest that resisting those feelings is a matter for prudence rather than morality, we’ll just ignore the fine points of that distinction this morning in order to say a thing or two about dietary incontinence.

Incontinence is supposed to be a problem in some quarters of philosophy because the incontinent person knows the right thing to do, but just doesn’t do it. “How is that possible?” ask some of my professorial colleagues, scratching their heads in puzzlement. Now I should add right away that such philosophers are not the dolts that this kind of behavior might lead you expect. Their puzzlement is derived from a reading of Aristotle (or possibly Socrates) which suggests that knowledge of the good normally and naturally inclines one to simply do it. In fact, I don’t think that Aristotle thought that at all. In fact, it’s pretty clear that Aristotle thinks simply following one’s bodily inclinations is pretty normal for an immature consciousness. It’s also clear that he thinks we get enculturated into our understanding of the good through practice and habit. Like with bowling, Sudoku or cake decoration, we can’t abstractly understand the attraction or pleasure that one might take in virtue until we actually learn to practice it. Once you’ve mastered the practice, the enjoyment comes so naturally that one is never tempted to do otherwise. But it’s not clear that Aristotle supposes such mastery to be achieved very often. Incontinence occurs in that middle case where one has enough experience to feel the pull of virtue, but has not yet taken it so thoroughly to heart that no contrary feelings pull in other directions. Maybe that middle case applies to most of us.

If that crème brûlée is still staring you in the face after this somber exercise, take this consolation from William James: “But as I have enough trouble in life already without adding the trouble of carrying these intellectual inconsistencies, I personally just give up the Absolute. I just take my moral holidays; or else as a professional philosopher, I try to justify them by some other principle.”

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

 

High Tunnel Time

March 15, 2015

After a full week of when daytime highs rose well above forty degrees and nighttime lows remained above freezing there is quite a bit of muddy green showing in the Michigan landscape this morning. There is also still a fair amount of snow in my yard. I doubt that the areas along the curb where it was piled high from shoveling will be clear even by tomorrow night, despite the predicted high for 2015 at 66°. Diane was out at Appleschram Orchard yesterday attending to the hoophouse where the early season pickings for Thornapple CSA will very soon be enjoying the convection-warmed air. Maybe I should take a week off from this season’s musings on food and culture to say just a word about the hoophouse.

First a note on terminology. I’m sure all the hipsters among my readers already know it, but we have some great new words to toss around over our pumpkin spice macchiato these days. Like, “Did you see that high tunnel going up on the North Farm above Chatham?” I could spin off a tangent here by explaining how I can be so sure that every enumerable hipster among my devoted audience of readers knows this, but I’ll resist the temptation for epistemological diversions. Both of my regular readers can probably fill in these details for themselves.

A “high tunnel” is a kind of hoophouse. A hoophouse is a kind of greenhouse, specifically one constructed by placing a row of metal hoops in the ground and then covering them with plastic. Generally speaking, a high tunnel is a hoophouse that is tall enough to stand up and work in. Low tunnels—hipsters may know them as “quick hoops”—are placed over plants to produce a little early season warming and to keep the frost off. They get taken off when the danger of freezing temperature is safely past. High tunnels are more permanent fixtures, though there are some very fancy ones mounted on wheels that can be rolled back to give the plants inside the full benefit of summer sunshine. You can also peel the plastic back off of a regular high tunnel, but that’s a lot of trouble. It’s not something you are likely to see at Thornapple CSA’s farm.

Hoophouses have revolutionized the production of vegetables for local markets, especially in Northern climes. By this time of year the late winter sun comes through and warms the air inside, creating an internal convection inside the tunnel that can add 15-20° to the outside temperature. This is not a big deal on days when it does reach 66°, but that doesn’t happen every day of the week in March (or April, for that matter). Nor does it happen every day in October and November. The extra warming is big on days when it fails to crack 40°, and huge when that late March snow comes in and it’s 22° at 9:00 in the morning. And, obviously, the physical barrier of the plastic is important for just keeping the snow off of the tender plants during their early season moments of vulnerability—something working for low tunnels, too. It’s less clear that you get a lot of protection from insects and plant diseases, but there is a shield that works as a first line of defense.

The hoophouse is one of the reasons why it is just fallacious to suggest that organic and local production is a nostalgic return to the farm production of yesteryear. Next time you are down at the coffee bar, try using the term “high tunnel” very casually in a conversation. If you are very ambitious, you can explain the bit about fallacious inferences too. Just remember that ‘fallacious’ rhymes with salacious, and be prepared for someone to take it the wrong way.

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

Relational Value

March 8, 2015

It may seem trite and it may be overworked but it doesn’t hurt to notice how comforting food can be to people from time to time. I’m not talking about so-called “comfort food”. That’s become a restaurant industry term for foods that hark back to the middle-class menus that were pretty standard across Middle America during the middle of the 20th century. The standard comfort foods are meatloaf, mashed potatoes and mac & cheese. There are probably a few other m foods in there. They may be largely responsible for the expanding middle of many middle-aged men. Today they are typically of middling quality, too.

A bit more seriously (if not particularly somberly), I’m taking a moment out here to celebrate a kind of food ethics that is focused on relational values. I have to pause and take a deep breath now because discoursing on ‘relational values’ could get rather ponderous, if not somber—and that could lead right on to pomposity. Not meaning to be pompous, I do mean indeed to speak on the pompitous of love (as Steve Miller had it), because when I say ‘relational value,’ I mean a value that is expressive or constitutive of a relationship. And no relationship throws off more pompitous heat than love.

We might be talking about family love. That would probably be the typical occasion for food-centered relational values (at least in Mid-Century Middle America). Mom’s meatloaf, mashed potatoes or mac & cheese could spark tender feelings, even when the mac & cheese came right out of the famous blue box. Whether or not these foods really were prepared out of a deep sense of caring (and I’m not saying they weren’t) they become emblematic of family relationships that tug on the heartstrings for many people. Not everybody, to be sure, and notice that I’m putting more than a little bit of distance between myself and the maudlin celebration of an idealized American Family that was more evident on ‘50s era sit-coms than it was in ‘50s era subdivisions. Lots of those moms were often distracted and busy, while others were dismissive and drunk. I’m coming off a chat with some friends who recount an episode where a mom dropped off her 7 year old at the bowling alley for a two hour birthday party beginning at noon then “forgot” to pick him up until around 8 o’clock that night.

But deflationary accounts of various mom’s cooking and caring aside, it doesn’t undercut the larger point of food as a conduit for relational values. In fact, a different kind of love relationship might actually be a better example. And no I’m NOT talking about Valentine’s Day chocolates. That’s maudlin, jejune, and more about selling stuff, too. I’m actually talking about a love we share with friends. Sometimes this takes the form of a ritual occasion—a shrimp boil or barbecue—where having something rather specific on the menu becomes one of key bricks in the construction and reconstruction of the event that also involves reconnection, reminiscence and relaxation. But it can also be sitting there across the table from a single individual while you are waiting for the pasta water to boil, the cookies to bake or even for your order of cheese fries to come. It may not require any particular kind of food, either. Last time it may have been sushi, and this time its green curry or pancakes. Nonetheless, the fact that it’s a food occasion may be pretty pivotal to that relational moment where simple caring and pleasure in on another’s company gets kindled.

Food can do that, and that’s something that no one who works in food ethics should ever be allowed to forget.

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

Cupholder

March 1, 2015

Dinner conversation last night led someone to remark that aside from Italy, California has the best food in the world. I didn’t bite. Maybe there’s something to this, because although I spend relatively little time in California, I have had some very good meals there. Yet the image that comes to mind with California food for me is food consumed in the car while cruising from one place to another. Songs by the Beach Boys start humming in my head and I’m reminded of films like American Graffiti where all the action centers around Mel’s Drive-In. Trying to put some meat on those bones, I Googled the Beach Boys’ “All Summer Long,” looking for a line expressing fond adolescent memories of eating cheeseburgers or chili fries, but all I got was “Member when you spilled Coke all over your blouse?”

We forget that there was no place to put a Coke in your typical 1960s piece of American chrome. Now in fairness to Brian Wilson, the Beach Boys main lyricist, I should note that the one Beach Boys song really dedicated to food encourages us to eat our vegetables. Maybe we’ll get around to that if we ever do another month of food songs in the Thornapple blog. Today I’ll just chalk that up as a tangent and get right back to the importance of a cupholder in the American lifestyle that we have all come to know and love.

Of course, I drove a ’63 Ford Fairlane without a cupholder in those days (and by “those days” I mean the late 1960s). It was, as a matter of factual record, not until the late 1970s that every McDonald’s or Burger King felt it incumbent to provide an opportunity for drive-through service. True ‘50s-style cruising for burgers would have more typically involved stopping the car and sitting in it while being served by car-hops (preferably on roller skates). Then you start up the car and go someplace else, even if it was just down the strip a few miles to a different drive-in where you would stop the car and do some more socializing, or maybe get a milkshake. We can tick off quite a few important observations in food ethics from this.

First, all the elements of an ethos were fully realized in this automobile-based food culture. There were ritualized social performances that supported group bonding and individual socialization. There was an intense aesthetic experience of being present in the moment that cemented the feeling that contrary to all the obvious signs of triviality, something important was happening here. Car-based consumption of this sort usually involved multiple layers of sociality: You rarely went out by yourself, or at any rate rarely stayed by yourself all evening. Riders would hop from car to car during those burger stops, and there was always the expectation (however infrequently realized) of romantic interludes. It was thrilling, even if it’s a little embarrassing to admit that now.

But of course we need to move right on to the fact that it was completely unsustainable. The fuel consumption was economically possible only because gas was 19¢ a gallon—something that disappeared with the lengthy lines at gas stations during the OPEC embargo a decade later. We were pretty much clueless about the environmental damage. It was also an expression of youth-culture that was destined to disappear simply because each generation has to have its own thing. I’m sure under 40 readers of the blog (if there were any) would have no idea what I’m talking about. So it was economically, environmentally and socially unsustainable. That’s three for three.

The Beach Boys might have been on to something when they sang “Won’t be long ‘til summer time is through.” Southern California hung on to that ethos, however. The last chorus answers the “Won’t be long…” with “Not for us, now.” Carmakers paid homage to those days by putting cupholders into their vehicles sometime later and Americans cruised into an era where they did not even pull over to socialize while eating in their vehicles. It’s an identity, I suppose, but is it one we should celebrate?

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

Dark Roll

February 22, 2015

Here I am blogging from the KLM Crown lounge at Schiphol again. The robots in Cupertino think it’s still Saturday night, but here in Holland we are well on our way to Sunday morning. So it’s time to think about the Thornapple blog.

The night before last I checked in at Chino Latino in Nottingham where Yelp! informed me that I was at a “hipster” place. Back when everyone was drinking Sanka and listening to Hank Williams (see last week to uncode this obscure reference) it was hip to be hip. It was so hip that only the hipsters would talk that way. By the time we got to Hendrix it was no longer hip to be hip. The truly hip were making snarky comments about anyone who appeared to be hip. Hendrix himself was so hip that he was beyond all that and could do just about anything including being generous about wannabe hipsters. Still and all, even Hendrix would ask, “Are you experienced?”

So speaking of sushi (again, check last week) Chino Latino is taking sushi to new territories, as I suppose any truly hipster place would. I had a nice roll made with duck—not something you would probably get at the sushi stands circling the Tokyo fish market. The duck itself was cooked in a tangy sauce heavy on the chilies (hence the Latino in Chino Latino). Pretty good I must say. Next time you are in Nottingham, you might want to check it out. But I’m bringing this up in connection with hipster food. Back in the day when hipsters were digging John Coltrane (they were never into Hank all that much) a nice roll would not likely have been the topic of conversation. Or if so it would have been reefer or booty, rather than ancho glazed duck breast and jasmine rice. But that is (to keep a thread going to the point of ridiculousness) how we roll.

While the truly beat hipsters were  obtaining nutrition from cigarettes, sour coffee and booze they were focused on other more potent and less legally sanctioned comestibles. In our era hipsters are seeking a kind of experience where the food is more than a backdrop. Appearances to the contrary, food still may not be the main thing. I’m of the mind that it is the experience a contemporary hipster is after, no less than it was for the beat generation. But we can’t deny that some novel foodie twists (along with the appropriate lighting and décor) go a long way toward constituting the hipster experience in the present day.

And what do we want to make of this from a food ethics perspective?

We could, of course, be snide, alluding back (as I’ve done already) to the “true hipsters” as a way of undercutting the claims of the present. But I demur. Although I’m deeply into historical context setting (way too deep, my students say) the present day hipsters may be derived from the beats in some sense, but they are too keenly absorbed in the irony of their hipsterdom to be derivative. Let’s give them that much credit.

We could also note that there was a dark side to old-school hip that you are just not going to capture with an ancho chili duck roll, no matter how appropriate the lighting is. I think there is something philosophical to pursue here—a source of depth and looming tragedy that only pessimism can produce. William James explored it in his essay “The Sick Soul,” from Varieties of Religious Experience. But however much a moralist might be enthralled by dark thoughts, it’s the lot of ethics to discourage one from going there. The fast living and drug addictions of the beats brought too many of them to a premature end, while those that survived testify to the superficiality of the “depth” that absorption in demons of that ilk produced.

The age of sushi may have a certain flatness to it, but maybe that’s not a bad thing, after all.

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

From Sanka to Sushi

February 15, 2015

“From Hank to Hendrix, I’ve always been with you,” Neil Young once sang. This would have been some time ago, and by “some time” I mean about the same amount of time from today as the “Hank to Hendrix” interval Neil was singing about back then. I wonder, can we use food to mark time in the same way?

I was watching some movie or TV show set in the late 50s or early 60s recently (and by “recently” I mean the last week) where Sanka was on offer. It wasn’t a crucial plot point but one of those little period details that screenwriters use to create a sense of time and place. I’m not sure of the resonance for this particular little detail. I can imagine asking a roomful of my undergraduates, “How many of you have ever heard of Sanka?” and getting only two or three hands in the air. But I can remember a time when household guests or even restaurant patrons would have been offered Sanka instead of decaf. I suppose it was a marvel of the advertising age that some ad campaign had been so successful in fixing this particular brand name equation into people’s heads that it became part of the common vernacular for a time. I’m sure there are a few households where it’s still the term of art for decaffeinated coffee here in 2015.

If we take the “Hank to Hendrix” time span it would put us back into the mid 90s. That would have been about the time that I had my first sushi, though I’m sure that I was a relative latecomer to this particular food experience in comparison to many others. I moved from College Station, TX, where there was no sushi in the mid 90s, to West Lafayette, IN. The house across the street from me in West Lafayette was owned by Subaru and occupied by a succession of Japanese executives detailed to Northwest Indiana to serve as liaison to the home office for the assembly plant over on the East Side. The legend was that the company had also underwritten the operation of a very high quality Japanese restaurant in West Lafayette so that their executives would not refuse this posting altogether. Whether true or not, there were not one but two very good Japanese restaurants in town when I moved there in 1997. I don’t really recall when I first ate sushi, but it couldn’t have been long after that move.

We have more sushi places than I could possibly count here in the Lansing-East Lansing-Okemos metroplex. I’m sure there are more than several in College Station by now. So how was it that Americans gave up drinking Sanka and started eating sushi? What does that mean?

One thing it points to is the thrust for novelty in our diets. From what I read in the history books, a diverse diet was a privilege of the rich until well into the 20th century. The taste for novelty was, I think, rather slow in developing, and it was almost certainly hurried along by the food industry’s need for profits. We were trained to look for brand names during the early decades of the 20th century, and once habituated the competitive spirit led food processers to search for any possible edge they might get over their competition. Anything different would have been a natural thing to try, but not too different (a subject we’ve blogged about at least once before).

As the parade of new foods lengthens, we gain the ability to mark time by our food fads. We see both exploring new foods and then their mass consumption as a form of fashion. Changes in fashion would not be fashionable if there wasn’t something trivial about the whole shtick. But I’m down with the people who think that we should take fashion somewhat more seriously when it comes to thinking about culture and the day to day practices from which our lives are actually made.

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