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On Saturday, I visited “Beer Planet,” as the Smithsonian Resident Associates invitingly titled their latest program at DC’s Brickskeller. Captained by Horst Dornbusch, a crew of about 100 boldly trekked through a global history of beer that featured 13 tastings.

Actually, I think the title was a bit overzealous. The tasting menu was divided into four categories: Germany, Belgium, British Isles, and North America (Maryland and Maine). Beer…Planet, you say? Well, I guess “Beers of the North Atlantic” doesn’t sound quite as cool.

Dornbusch, an engaging speaker who epitomizes the term “beer nerd,” attempted to cram a college course’s worth of world history into four hours. I groaned and settled in for a long ride when his first Powerpoint slide asked: “How long has homo sapiens been on this earth?” But somehow, we made it rather quickly through evolution, the dawn of civilization, the Sumerians, the Babylonians, and the Egyptians, all while still sipping our first beer, a gentle, malty ale called “Old Brown Dog” from New Hampshire’s Smuttynose Brewing Co. (Not clear what the connection was between the beer and the topic at that point; other than the word “old.”)

Beer bubbles, courtesy Flickr user Attilla 1000

No one’s sure exactly when beer was invented—it was referenced as early as the 6th century B.C. in Sumeria—or how. Dornbusch’s personal theory, that beer was invented by accident during bread-making, goes something like this: One day, someone was making bread outdoors when their work was interrupted by a big rainstorm. They ran for shelter and forgot about the dough for a day or two, then came back to discover a soupy, fermenting liquid in the bowl. They tried it, got tipsy, and said, “hey, this is good.”

Eh, that seems like a bit of a stretch, but as I don’t have a better theory to offer, we’ll go with it. Dornbusch says brewing spread to Egypt and continued to grow until Cleopatra instated a beer tax (at this, a rumble of “booooo” went around the room—the tasting seemed to be taking effect) and declined drastically after Arab conquest of the region in the 7th century, since Islamic laws proscribe drinking alcohol.

But while beer’s popularity waned in the Middle East, it was gaining ground in northern Europe. People there somehow figured out brewing (perhaps via another soggy-bread epiphany) by at least 800 B.C., based on beer residues in a Celtic amphora found in modern Bavaria. Dornbusch says the Romans were the first to invent the modern brewing process—involving malting and mashing—based on the ruins of a 179 A.D. brewery discovered in a Roman settlement near what is now Regensburg, Germany.

For this portion of the tasting, we started with a Hefeweizen from Weihenstephan, which claims to be the world’s oldest continually operating brewery, founded in 1040 A.D. by Benedictine monks. I’ve been a fan of this beer since I lived in Germany a few years ago, so I was happy to taste it again; there’s a spicy, sweet quality to it reminiscent of banana bread. Then we moved onto a Jever Pilsener—crisp and refreshing, but unspectacular—and a Reissdorf Kölsch, a pleasant, light-bodied brew which Dornbusch compared to a British pale ale.

In the early years, German beer was flavored with whatever was available to cover up its rank taste in warmer months: herbs, bark, mushrooms, or even chicken blood and bile! In 1516, Bavarian Duke Wilhelm IV issued the now-famous edict restricting the ingredients of beer to barley, hops and water. For the past century this edict has been commonly referred to as the Reinheitsgebot, or “purity law,” which irks Dornbusch. (”Ninety-five percent of it was about price fixing; this was no ‘purity law!’” he told us, pointing out that it excludes wheat and even yeast, which hadn’t been discovered yet.)

Eventually we moved on to Belgium, whose more anti-authoritarian culture is reflected in its more inventive and eccentric beers. I was sure I’d find my favorite in this country, and I was right…sort of. The beer I liked best—a dark red ale called Ommegang—is named for a Belgian festival, inspired by Belgian Trappist ales and even made with Belgian yeast, but the brewery is actually in Cooperstown, New York. Ommegang’s spiced-fruit flavor reminded me of the “drunken fig preserves” I made a few months ago, and I imagine a bottle of it would disappear from my fridge even more quickly than those did! Same goes for the two true Belgians we tasted: Saison Dupont, a bottle-conditioned farmhouse ale with coriander and orange notes, and Liefmans Kriek, a cherry lambic that tastes like fruitcake (in a good way).

In Great Britain, archaeological evidence suggests that fermented beverages date back to Neolithic times, and brewing became an industry during the Roman occupation. Ale was drunk widely in medieval Britain (hey, it was safer than water), and hops had become part of the brewing process by the 16th century.

Although not as exciting as the Belgians, the two British ales we tasted (Fuller’s ESB, and Boddington’s Mild) were highly drinkable, and the O’Hara’s Irish Stout from Carlow Brewing was every bit as good as Guinness, my first love in terms of beer.

Finally, we landed (tipsily) in North America, where we tried two brews from nearby Maryland: Flying Dog Double Dog, an “insanely hopped” IPA which I found too bitter too drink, and Clipper City’s Great Pumpkin Imperial Pumpkin Ale, which tasted like, well, pumpkin pie that someone spilled beer on. The real star of the show was the Maine-brewed Allagash Curieux Tripel Ale, which had hints of coconut, bourbon and vanilla in it after aging for two months in Jim Beam barrels.

If you could plot a trip to your own “Beer Planet,” what countries would your tastebuds pull you toward?

Shetland cod with pig's trotters, tripe and ears, perhaps showing up on a menu near you soon, courtesy of Flickr user Sifu_Renka

‘Tis the season for the trend prophets to release their forecasts for the upcoming year. Last week restaurant consultants Baum & Whiteman, the Nostradamuses of the food world, announced their annual list of 12 food and dining trends for 2010 (pdf). In a word, it’s going to be offal. (I didn’t just write that, did I? I should be pun-ished. Can one’s journalism degree be revoked?)

A unifying theme was that people are paring down in response to the economic climate (the list itself seemed to be following its own prediction—there was one fewer trend than last year). People’s priorities are shifting to the more personal, and they are looking for comfort and a connection with others—what the consultants call, metaphorically, the “campfire experience.”

I have already noticed some restaurants moving in the direction of the second item on the list—a greater emphasis on small plates, different portion-size options, and plates for sharing—which they call “putting the focus on the left side of the menu.” I heartily welcome the shift to smaller portions; I can rarely finish what’s on my plate when I eat out, and I don’t always want to carry around leftovers. Why should I pay for $25 worth of food when I’m only hungry for $15?

I’m also happy to note that, according to the list, our palates are becoming more attuned to tartness. Like Michele Hume, who wrote “What’s Wrong With Chocolate” at the Atlantic Food Channel, I almost always prefer a tangy lemon dessert to a chocolate one, and I add lemon juice to everything from vegetables to chicken soup. Although the publishers and devotees of the recently rejuvenated bestseller Mastering the Art of French Cooking by Julia Child might disagree, I concur with the consultants’ reasoning that “classic French cookery, based on excesses of butter and cream, is in decline because it puts the taste buds into snooze mode…. We’re all getting older and we need more zing in our food.” Hear, hear!

And, yes, there was a reason (though probably not a good one) for the offal pun. Baum & Whiteman predict that tongue, trotters, gizzards and other spare animal parts will be showing up on more menus to augment downsized portions of prime meats. This, I assume, has the double benefit of lowering food costs while making diners feel adventurous and in-the-know. I suppose it also cuts down on wastefulness, which is good. I still don’t think I can bring myself to eat it, though. When I was about 6, my grandmother, a big fan of tongue, once fed it to me without my knowledge. I liked it—until I found out what it was and couldn’t stop picturing myself biting my own tongue.

If organ meat isn’t scary enough, the list warns hotels and restaurants that they “no longer control what’s said about them.”  The old “Voices of Authority,” such as Gourmet magazine, are disappearing in favor of the “Instant Opinion Makers”: bloggers, Twitterers, Facebookers and their ilk, who “broadcast ‘buzz’ and bad news to a million gullible people in the blink of the eye.” I started to feel the slightest bit guilty about the role of blogs such as this one in the demise of quality food magazines, but then I got over myself. First of all, I don’t think the editors of Gourmet would agree that they ever allowed restaurants to control what was said about them. And, while I regret the decline of print journalism in general (which, after all, provides the bulk of my livelihood), I don’t think what we’re doing here at Food & Think is a replacement for the restaurant reviews, recipes and beautiful food photography that such magazines offer.

Beets from a farmer's market, courtesy of Flickr user phxpma

I ordered a salad with roasted beets when I was out with my parents recently. They looked at the hunks of purple of my plate and wrinkled their noses. The “I remember when…” statements weren’t far behind. They recalled stinky, pickled beets from a can, which is something they never subjected me to when I was a child (which may be why I was so willing to eat them). “Beets taste like dirt,” my dad said with conviction.

Beets do get a bad name in the culinary world, but recently their heath benefits have many reconsidering the oft-overlooked vegetable. Beets are high in folate and vitamin C, for example.

When I insisted that my parents try the beets, they both skeptically took bites and were shocked. The beets were not the mushy, noxious lumps they remembered from their childhoods, but rather a food worth eating, savoring even. My dad plans on grilling them once his Chicago-area hometown thaws.

Still nervous about recreating some awful childhood memories? Try these alternate preparations that have nothing to do with pickling or borscht. Just be careful when handling them—anything they touch will turn red.

1. Sweet. Because beets have the highest natural sugar content of any vegetable, using a sweet preparation is a no-brainer. Tyler Florence shared this red velvet cake recipe on “The View” as a healthier substitute for the Southern favorite. (Tip: His recipe forgets to mention that the vegetable oil should be mixed in with the wet ingredients at the beginning of the recipe. Can’t find pomegranate molasses? Try this Alton Brown recipe.)If baking is a bit ambitious, try this simple glazed baby beets recipe from Alton Brown.

2. Hidden in pasta. Delicious Days has a recipe for incredible-looking beet pasta dough. They used a sweet ravioli filling, but I think the recipe can be versatile. I plan on making this with a butternut squash filling as soon as I can get my parents to ship my pasta machine.

3. Simple. Sometime simple is best. Wrap whole beets, skins on, in foil and roast in a 400 degree oven for an hour or so until tender. The skins will peel off easiliy. Chop beets and eat alone or mix into a salad, maybe with cooked beet greens and oranges. Or, try a Mediterranean beet and yogurt salad.

4. Raw in a salad. The simplest preparation of all. Take some inspiration from the New York Times’ “The Minimalist: 101 Simple Salads for the Season” and pair beets with arugula and goat cheese.

5. Eat the greens. Beet greens are very similar to hearty greens such as collard green and kale. Try them baked in a gratin, in a salad or cooked with bacon and onion.

A bride and groom play a game of throwing rice on each other's heads at a Hindu wedding. Photograph by Amanda Lynn Photograph

A few weeks ago I attended a Hindu wedding for the first time. I was struck by the prominent role that food rituals played in the ceremony, and how each food had a symbolic significance.

A traditional Hindu wedding can last for several days, though the one I went to was an abbreviated two-hour version, which followed a Western-style civil ceremony (the bride, my friend Padma, is an American-born Indian and the groom, Joe, is Caucasian). The ceremony took place outdoors under a mandap, or canopy, and was performed by a priest who spoke Sanskrit. I found it interesting that, although there were seats arranged for the guests to sit in while viewing the ceremony, it was acceptable for people to walk around, talk quietly, and even go grab a refreshment at the bar set up a few yards away from the mandap.

The ceremony began with Padma’s parents welcoming Joe into the mandap. A curtain was held up in front of him so that when Padma entered, the bride and groom couldn’t see each other (as the bride’s sister explained in a running play-by-play, traditional Hindu weddings were arranged by the families of the bride and groom, and the concerned parties may have never laid eyes upon their future mates before the ceremony). The lifting of the curtain is a dramatic moment in the ceremony, even for couples who have met before.

A coconut was placed in Padma’s hands; her father then held her hands and, together, they handed the fruit to Joe. The coconut was a divine offering to ensure the marriage was blessed, Padma explained to me later. Coconuts are considered a symbol of prosperity in Hinduism.

Next, a paste of cumin seeds and brown sugar were crushed together and placed in a betel leaf; as the priest recited Vedic mantras, the bride and groom in turn placed the leaf on the other’s head. The mixture represented the bitterness and sweetness of life, Padma said.

Rice also played a major role in the ceremony. In the Western tradition, rice was thrown at a newlywed couple as a symbol of fertility. However, in the Hindu tradition, rice represents sustenance. Guests were invited to the mandap to throw sprinklings of turmeric-colored rice on Padma and Joe as a blessing. Offerings of puffed rice were poured into the sacred fire, which the priest kept burning by dousing occasionally with ghee, or clarified butter.

Although the Hindu ceremony was mostly solemn, and rooted in spiritual beliefs, there were moments of levity, including games (which probably helped break the ice for a young couple getting to know one another). One of my favorite parts of the wedding was the game where Padma and Joe competed to see who could throw the most rice over the other’s head. The outcome was said to indicate who would be dominant in the relationship. In a way, it reminded me of the somewhat polarizing custom among some Western brides and grooms of smashing cake into the other’s face, although more lighthearted and with less chance of hurt feelings. As far as I can tell, the cake custom—a variation on the much more widely acceptable tradition of feeding one’s new spouse a bite of cake—has no symbolic meaning today, although it may stem from the ancient Roman custom of smashing a barley cake over the bride’s head to ensure her fertility. Considering the reaction of some modern brides to having their perfectly done hair and makeup destroyed by frosting, I imagine it might have the opposite effect nowadays.

Four types of cinnamon, courtesy Flickr user FootosVanRobin

The chatty coffee-shop employee’s comment confused me. I had paused at the condiment station to add a sprinkle of cinnamon* to my cappuccino, and he was wiping down the counter in front of me.

“Ah, yes, for your eyes?” he asked, gesturing at the cinnamon shaker.

“My…eyes?” I fumbled in response. “No, for my coffee…”

He gave me a pitying smile, informed me that “everyone knows” cinnamon is good for ocular health, and went back to cleaning.

As a bit of Googling revealed, he’s not the only one who believes in cinnamon as a health product. It’s sold in many nutritional supplements and homeopathic remedies, marketed with claims that range from boosting metabolism to controlling blood sugar to, yes, enhancing vision.

I don’t see (pardon the pun) hard evidence for most of those claims, but a 2006 German study reported that cinnamon could help stabilize insulin levels for people with Type 2 diabetes, and a study published this year in the Journal of the American College of Nutrition supports the idea that dietary cinnamon compounds “could reduce risk factors associated with diabetes and cardiovascular disease.”

Today, cinnamon was in the news again as the USDA’s Agricultural Research Service (ARS) reported that it may help prevent or reduce brain swelling.

When the brain is temporarily deprived of oxygen and food (glucose)—as in the case of a traumatic injury or stroke—brain cells tend to swell, which can cause permanent neurological damage. But in a lab experiment conducted by scientists at the ARS Human Nutrition Research center in Beltsville, Maryland, isolated brain cells that were exposed to a cinnamon polyphenol extract did not swell.

However: “The researchers caution that table cinnamon compounds may accumulate in the body and should not be ingested consistently as more than a spice over long periods of time.”

In other words, I should stick to just sprinkling it on my cappuccinos and apple crisp for now. But, as a scientist I interviewed a while ago about pepper-based fungicides for wine grapes said, nature may hold the answers to many human and plant health problems—right under our noses.

*Like most of the ground cinnamon sold in supermarkets, this was probably cassia, not Ceylon cinnamon, which some people call “true cinnamon.” I just checked with one of the ARS researchers, Richard Anderson, and he says they’ve tested several types of cinnamon, including cassia, and all proved effective.