Food, like fashion and architecture, is an art form as well as a basic human necessity, and on which side of that scale it falls depends largely on where in the world you’re eating it. Until recently, Minnesota was a place where food was simply eaten and eaten simply. We had nice restaurants, sure, and in a pinch we could throw a few things in a pan, but food, after all, was just food. We ate it, liked it and forgot it, then busied ourselves with the rest of life.

But not anymore. Today, more than ever, food is life. It nourishes our bodies as well as our social selves. We eat healthier than ever before, buying into (1) Community-Supported Agriculture (CSA) shares, local food co-ops and (2) farm-to-fork dining events with renewed relish. Our relationship with our food evolved from lust—”better-than-sex cake” and all that—to real, deep love. And as with our loved ones, we want to know everything about our food, so we ask questions: Where does it come from? Who grows, raises, slaughters, packages, transports, prepares, cooks and serves it? Is there a better way to do any of that? And how can we do it ourselves?

The trend toward more meaningful eating has been rumbling in the nation’s stomachs for several years now, led most noisily by Michael Pollan, the author of such agri-festos as The Botany of Desire (2001), The Omnivore’s Dilemma (2006) and In Defense of Food (2008). “Locavore” was the Oxford English Dictionary’s “Word of the Year” in 2007 (narrowly edging out “cougar”). The Food Network, home to all of one television star throughout the 1990s, has grown into a launching pad for dozens of internationally recognizable food critics, chefs and talk show hosts. The fourth-most popular movie in America as of this writing is a biopic about a housewife with a knack for high French cuisine. In the first quarter of 2009, when sales of adult non-fiction books on the whole were down four percent, sales of books about cooking were up nine percent. However you dice it, people are just really into food right now.

Locally, it’s the same story. “Michael Pollan is far, far, far and away our bestselling author.” says Jay D. Peterson, manager of Magers & Quinn Booksellers in Minneapolis. “Ever. You wouldn’t believe how many of that guy’s books we sell.” Magers & Quinn’s neighbor across the street, Kitchen Window, a cooking supply store and school, has noticed a similar uptick. “People’s interest in cooking, particularly fundamental-based classes, is definitely increasing,” says president Doug Huemoeller. The appetite for back-to-basics eating—nay, living—is evident on Amazon.com, where one of the hottest sellers is The Encyclopedia of Country Living, a back-to-the-land guide originally Xeroxed and self-published in 1974. Canning, pickling and preserving classes are particularly popular at (3) local food co-ops, such as the Seward Co-op in Minneapolis and Mississippi Market in St. Paul, both of which opened new, larger, shinier locations this year. A starter garden in northeast Minneapolis is the subject of a popular New York Times blog. CSAs are reporting higher participation rates than ever. Minneapolis legalized (4) urban beekeeping. Lenny Russo, chef at Heartland in St. Paul, starting cooking with (5) invasive species, such as garlic mustard and Chinese crawfish.

It’s no mystery what’s going on here. We’re in a recession and folks are retapping the folk knowledge of their forebears to lead simpler, more efficient and more affordable lives. But there are some people who believe the grow-it-and-cook-it-yourself movement is part of a deeper stirring in the 21st-century human psyche, part of a larger trend back to DIY craftsmanship in general. In the new book Shop Class as Soulcraft, motorcycle mechanic and philosopher Matthew Crawford extols the virtues of “manual competency” while calling for a return to the “useful arts”—anything that requires elbow grease in addition to brainpower (cooking, woodworking, handiwork)—as opposed to “ghostly work,” the specific, cerebral chores of most office workers. Crawford encourages the computer screen-lit masses to pick up wrenches and spatulas not because it’s economical to do so. Often it isn’t: Building a table is vastly more expensive than buying one at Ikea; beekeeping can cost more than $1,000 to take up, whereas a jar of honey—even local, organic honey—rarely runs more than $5. But self-reliance and full engagement in your belongings and your food has rewards that outweigh the economic costs, especially during a recession that was caused by confusing financial transactions of abstract goods. “We want to feel that our world is tangible, so we can be responsible for it,” Crawford writes. “This seems to require that the provenance of our things be brought closer to home.”

Whatever the reason for our desire to get closer to our food, the effect has been to refine our tastes. Minnesota was once the land of Hamm’s and Grain Belt; now Twin Cities bars are flowing with (6) microbrews such as Surly, Flat Earth, Brau Brothers and Lift Bridge. A rum-and-coke was once considered a cocktail; now the town’s best bartenders (notably at La Belle Vie, the Strip Club, Bradstreet Crafthouse, Town Talk Diner and Café Maude) are brewing their own bitters, muddling fresh ingredients and pushing (7) mixology to its limits. (8) HeavyTable.com, a new online food magazine, has become a virtual dining room table for Twin Cities food-lovers to chew the fat, so to speak, about their favorite restaurants, recipes and anything else happening in local food. (9) Underground supper clubs like Gastro Non Grata and Paired (which ended, sadly, in August) made us reconsider food as art by serving restaurant-caliber dishes in rock clubs, galleries and brick-walled warehouses alongside the city’s best bands and visual artists. Even our children are getting in on the fun, with the (10) Junior Gourmet Club—a pet project of La Belle Vie co-owner Bill Summerville—enhancing the palates of eaters of all ages.

It’s not that we all became food snobs. It’s that food snobs don’t really exist anymore. The food snob was a lonely eater, looking down at the rest of us; in the harbor of culinary delights, she was a yacht among dinghies. If Twin Cities eaters are now enjoying the same views as the snob, it isn’t because we all bought bigger boats, it’s because the water level itself has risen. In 2009 our tastes became better, our appetites broader. We began demanding more of our chefs, our bartenders, our beer brewers and, above all, ourselves. We got creative with our food and the experience of eating it. More importantly, we got curious. And that just made us hungrier. --Chuck Terhark