We assume that First Ladies' days are filled with a lot of traditional social planning, but it's still a little disconcerting to see Michelle in full-on Mamie Eisenhower mode. That, however, is far less odd than the exhaustive rundown from the Chicago Sun Times' blog, which informs us intently that "The president loves scallops," the first fam enjoys The White House Huckleberry Cobbler, Michelle likes some creamless creamed spinach, but Sasha won't eat it.

The occasion for this report is the National Governors Association meeting, apparently a black tie dinner with dancing at the White House. Michelle, social secretary Rogers, the White House chef and pastry chef and a bunch of local students previewed the menu. Besides a moment when Michelle calls some Wilson china "Truman" and says "I don't have my china down yet," it's hard to know whether the reporter was, you know, there, or just getting feeds from some Us Weekly- style source.

I'll spare you the exhaustive rundown of china, silver, glassware, flowers and centerpiece arrangements, but here's the menu:

Chesapeake Crab Agnolottis with Roasted Sunchokes
Wine pairing: Spottswoode Sauvignon Blanc 2007 (California)

Wagyu Beef and Nantucket Scallops with Glazed Red Carrots, Portobello Mushroom and Creamed Spinach
Wine pairing: Archery Summit Pinot Noir "Estate" 2004 (Oregon)

Winter Citrus Salad with Pistachios and Lemon Honey Vinaigrette

Huckleberry Cobbler with Caramel Ice Cream
Wine pairing: Black Star Famrs "A Capella" Riesling Ice Wine 2007 (Michigan)

First Lady Michelle Obama, Desiree Rogers preview White House dinner tonight. Menu. Pool reports [Chicago Sun Times]

Breakfast cereal was originally promoted by Christian fundamentalists as a wholesome alternative to the typical meat-and-whiskey diet of the average 19th Century sinner.

To rid America of these vices, religious zealots spearheaded the country’s first vegetarian movement. In 1863, one member of this group, Dr. James Jackson, invented Granula, America’s first ready-to-eat, grain-based breakfast product. Better known as cereal, Jackson’s rock-hard breakfast bricks offered consumers a sin-free meat alternative that aimed to clear both conscience and bowels.

Health advocate John Kellogg seized on the idea and turned it into the more palatable cornflake.

Cereal took its first turn towards the nakedly commercial when salesman Charles Post started knocking off the product, promoting them with an advertising blitz that quickly became the growing industry's SOP. Packaging got loud, claims got wild, and the mascot was born.

But the real winner was a cereal called Force. Its mascot, Sunny Jim, was a strutting, top-hatted gentleman who became so popular in newspapers and magazines that other cereal makers rushed to create their own mascots. For a cereal called Elijah’s Manna, Charles Post even tried putting a picture of the prophet on the label. Although the product was eventually pulled, one industry ground rule had been established: Every box needs a character. Before long, cereal makers had an insatiable appetite for finding the right mascot, regardless of the cost.

The next gimmick, marketing to kids, would have had cereal's high-minded creators rolling in their graves, as it became increasingly apparent that the trick to shilling to the young was upping the sugar content to cavity-inducing levels, which Mad Men pitched as "energy-boosting." In congress with the advent of kid's TV, this meant a stratospheric jump in sales, but the flagrant manipulation of children provoked a backlash, culminating in 1990's law that "banning TV characters from pitching directly to children in the middle of a show."

When you think about it, cereal still occupies a unique echelon in our social consciousness: even the junkiest choco-honey-loop carries about it an aura of health. But as natural foods have taken off, what's funny to see is the stark divide that's developed on supermarket shelves: virtuous brown health cereals, in their squat, dull boxes, quarantined from the gay circus of brightly-hued child-bait a few feet away. There's fun cereal, and then there's healthy cereal. And then there are the crummy health versions of fun cereals, which are obviously not nearly as delicious and are probably not fooling any 4-year-old with a brain and a TV. If the product's quintessentially American evolution, burdened equally with high-minded idealism and crass commercialism, is a neat analogy for the push-pull of the national ethos, you can make the same reach with the contemporary cereal aisle: the battle for the country's health and priorities. Because, as my bland health food store fake Honey Nut Cheerios can attest to, you seriously can't have it both ways.

How Cereal Transformed American Culture [MentalFloss]