Seven A.M.  We’re riding the train from Union Station in Chicago west into the heartland of America, slicing through lush, green fields of corn and soybeans that lie as flat as a two by four.  The dining car opens for business and, starving, we pile in.  People in line in ahead of us buy coffee, doughnuts, bear claws, and playing cards.  We make it up to the front just as the last low-sugar (but high-preservative) breakfast sandwich is sold.  The remaining options are morbidly depressing, illustrating exactly why the Standard American Diet is so S.A.D. 

Luckily, though, there is low-fat milk for sale, and we still have an emergency bag of Mojamix in our luggage. The conductor kindly gives us bowls and spoons and we’re back to our seats, for a refreshing and delicious breakfast of whole grains, fruits, nuts, and Americana.  A distinguished looking gentleman in the seat across the aisle looks at us and our fare, then down at his own package of processed mush.  “Excuse me… where did you get that?” he asks.  We share a bowl and the (now) empty package so he can order some of his own for the next trip.  Two kids peep over the backs of their seats to watch us eat.  Soon we’re the envy of the entire car.  As well we should be.