Since I've already admitted that I'm a cocktail snob, it should come as no surprise that I'm also a beer snob, and as a beer snob I've long believed that good American beer doesn't come in cans. (I say "American," because as a beer snob, I adore canned Guinness, Boddingtons, and -- when it was sold here -- Caffrey's.)

But American canned beer? Bah!

Once again, I am so happy to be proven wrong. On every trip home to Minneapolis for the past few years, I have been tempted to tour the Surly Brewing Company in Brooklyn Center, MN. The name of the company alone was enough to intrigue me, but then I got a load of the beer names: Furious, CynicAle, Bitter Brewer, and Bender. Just add Grumpy, Sleepy, and Dopey and they could be the Seven Drunk Dwarfs of beerland.

I figured a company that creative with their names had to produce good stuff, and I was right.

We had our first taste of Furious on tap at Bryant Lake Bowl -- a bowling alley/restaurant known for its bowling, local food, and wide range of beers -- and loved it. It was big and hoppy and reminded us of Racer 5 IPA and is got its name because: "This is the beer that would come to mind while spending the last two years tearing down walls, hanging sheetrock, moving kegs, power washing the ceilings, arguing with various agencies, and cutting the water main."

Next we tried CynicAle, which had been heroically and specially procured for us by my friend's husband in the middle of a dinner party all because my friend knew we were on a Surly hunt.

Described as, "Brewed with Belgian malted barley, this copper hued ale is brewed in the Belgian Saison style. A unique Belgian yeast strain creates the spicy flavor and imported hops lend the apricot/peach aroma...You know summer in Minnesota is here when Cynic is around," CynicAle was another canned winner.

Finally, we grabbed a four-pack of Bender. Bender is made up of five malts -- two of them from Belgium -- which are supplemented by oatmeal "to give it a smooth texture not usually associated with this type of beer." It was lovely; rich, chocolately, Guinness-like but with its own distinctive edge.

Knowing that beer snobs like me might turn up my nose at cans, Surly has a list of reasons why they can it. My two favorites are, "Cans are cool" and "Throwing them at the band will not hurt them."

However, beer and can defense aside, the best Surly quirk -- and something that gives you a glimpse into how these particular beer mavens think -- is how the company got its name:

"In 2005, Omar & his wife Becca headed out to Portland for a weeklong beer drinking trip. On the flight out, Becca came up with the name Surly. The name was a reaction to the question posed: "How do you feel when you go into a bar and there is no good beer?"

Answer - You Get Surly, and say "Let's go to another bar that cares about decent beer."

Surly: The anger fueled by the inability to find good beer."

We actually had hopes of bringing some warm Surly cans home with us to enjoy in the San Francisco summer months of September and October, but because it's not filtered or pasteurized, Surly must always be kept cold.

I'll tell you this, I'm getting pretty Surly that I can't get me some CynicAle for election night in San Francisco.

When the rain that was roiling menacingly in the bloated clouds over Minneapolis finally let loose and spattered down just as we arrived at the St. Paul Farmers' Market, I was worried. Did I just ask my friends to meet me out in inclement weather? Did we have enough umbrellas? Did we have extra layers, sweaters, or jackets? Would they Camille home, nursing sore throats, coughs, and eventually succumb to an effectively romantic wasting disease complete with lace hankerchiefs?

But when I stepped out into the grey sunlight from the darkness of the minivan, I remembered: summer rain in Minnesota does not mean frigidity! Summer rain in Minnesota means wet warmth! Getting gently spattered, I left my coat and umbrella in the car and set out to enjoy the covered St. Paul Farmers' Market to its fullest.

Nestled among architecturally stunning buildings of downtown St. Paul and a few blocks away from the Mississippi, the Saturday farmers' market was decidedly populated with shoppers without being crowded by wheeled suitcases. In one small area you could get coffee, juice, bagels, and pastries to nourish you while shopping; you could also chose to sit down with your breakfast goodies on benches or at tables.

This bright and springy lettuce was the first thing I saw after walking into the farmers' market. I was not only entranced by the pristinely washed sheaves of green, but also by the adorable red basket.

Almost all the farmers had these awesome retro-looking trucks pulled up to their table of wares. I have a particular love for Big Woods and Nerstrand, MN, since they produce my favorite blue cheese in the country.

Just looking at this corn manages to make me both wistful and happy. In color and in kernel rowing, this maize (or "Indian Corn") is riotously irregular and ready to be twined on someone's lamppost.

Peter Piper picked a peck of peppered pickles. I never had such a canning urge as I did looking at these bushels of green and pimpled cucumbers.

A beautiful reminder that cider and apple-picking season is just around the corner in Minnesota. These sublime specimens have perfect handles for apple ducking.

Never in my five years of living in California have I seen this kind of cherry tomato. They were called Black Russians, and their maroon cheeks were streaked with purple striations. My father, who professes to hate cherry tomatoes, gulped down the gazpacho I squeezed out with these Black Russians and some heavily rooted sweet basil.

I was completely wowed by the herbs from this farmer. I've never seen such ecstatically hearty roots on herbs before.

For two-tone luck.

When I first saw this sign I thought, "Oh, Minnesotans and their FISHING!" but then I realized that wasn't the point of the sign and I admired, "Oh, Minnesotans and their CRAFTINESS!" What a delicious way to get around the illegal cheese issue.

All in all, I was besotted and beguiled by the St. Paul Farmers' Market. The farmers were friendly and sometimes German accented, the patrons were polite and smiling, and the produce was prodigious and irreproachable. Even the typical musical talent that you frequently find at farmers' markets -- a banjo and guitar crew, togged out like the Baudelaire orphans -- distinguished themselves by cracking Sarah Palin jokes as they sawed and sung to their semi-circle of admirers.

I'm a very impatient person, but on this trip to Minneapolis patience and forbearance paid off in spades. That said, St. Paul-based Izzy's Ice Cream was harder to get into than SPQR at 7:00 on a Friday.

Our first attempt was via the web on Saturday morning. Since we were crossing the grand Mississippi to pay a virgin visit to the St. Paul Farmer's Market, we thought we'd drop by for a frozen scoop or two before lunch. The website put Izzy's opening hours at 2:00pm, which rather late for what is still essentially summer, but we decided to swing by anyway. Maybe the website was wrong.

We got Izzy's, which was clearly closed, and looked at the hours painted on the glass door. They stated they opened at 12:00pm. It was 11:00am. Without anything left to do in the capital city, we went back to Minneapolis to lunch at Bryant Lake Bowl. (This was a happy side trip because we had our first taste of Surly beer, but more on that later.) At 12:30 we headed back across the river. Izzy's was still not open. This time we found a red sign stating that their "fall" opening hours (valid only for September and October because true Minnesotans know that November is not fall but winter) was 2:00 pm. Lord.

Frustrated and yearning for the elusive salted caramel I had sampled over a year ago, we trudged to Kowalski's on Lake Street. We knew they carried Izzy's but sadly, not one pint of salted caramel could be found. I didn't want to be mad at Izzy's -- after all, they were (by their calculations) the first shop in the nation to be run by solar power! Also, I really wanted to get my husband in on that salted caramel because the lines at Bi-Rite have been Bi-Ridiculous.

Our third and final attempt on Monday afternoon actually got us in the open door, but as we scanned the list of ice creams, we saw no Salted Caramel. We looked in the pint freezer. No salted caramel.

We sighed sadly and made other delicious choices -- sampling an incredible pink grapefruit sorbet before settling on seasonal pumpkin and coffee -- but when I mentioned to the girl helping me that I had been hoping for the mythical salted caramel, she said, "We're making it right now. We'll have it tomorrow." I said, "Oh, I'm leaving town tomorrow..." She said, "We'll have it for you when you get back." "No, I live in San Francisco," I mourned. "Hang on," she said. She went next door -- TO WHERE THEY WERE MAKING THE ICE CREAM -- and came pack with a fresh pint. "We haven't blast-chilled it yet, so it's more like soft serve consistency," she told me apologetically.

Did I care? I would have taken it if it was fully liquid! (Also, since my father has this odd habit of microwaving his ice cream to make ice cream soup, this would be better for him.) It was served that night after dinner and received rave reviews from the whole family.

Sweet was the long-sought taste of salted caramel, but sweeter was the way we got it.

I've just booked a trip that ensures that in less than a month, I'll be happily winging off to my home state of Minnesota. Minneapolis is where I grew up as the pickiest of eaters, eschewing nearly every vegetable aside from corn and artichokes. (Don't ask where my mother got artichokes in Minneapolis in the 70s and 80s. Or Pomegranates and avocados for that matter, but my mother was born and bred in Glendale, CA and she knew what she liked and she made sure she found it for us.)

However, on this next trip home, I will finally (FINALLY) visit the St. Paul's Farmers' Market, the jewel in Minnesota's market crown. I've done Mill City and the older Minneapolis Farmers' Market. I've also done the tiny Thursday stalls along Nicollet Avenue back when I worked downtown at my dad's law firm. Now, it's time for St. Paul, the city on the other side of the river. Capitol twin to my beloved Minneapolis.

Befitting a hardworking Midwestern state, the SPFM is only open from April 26th to November 15th. Those dates are certainly significant to any Minnesotan, because we all know that snow is no stranger to May, and I fondly remember a historic Halloween my senior year in high school when we got 33 inches of nice fluffy white stuff between 9 PM and 5 AM.

It was the first actual Snow Day of my memory. (See, we went to school even when the power went out at Jefferson Elementary and when the busses stalled. In the former, we just wore our snowsuits and in the latter, other busses came to get us.) However, Minnesota being what it is, in 1992 the roads were plowed and my dad was on his way to work by noon.

A farmers' market of some fashion has been operating in St. Paul since 1852. Back then, fresh produce was -- as it is now -- only available during the feverish and fecund summer months. However, throughout the year and even during the glacial, killing months, they had dairy, flour, cakes, and candies. Now, they also have local baked goods, cheese, poultry, buffalo, venison, beef, pork, lamb, maple syrup, eggs, honey, organic produce, flowers, plants, and shrubs.

Living in the (comparatively) warm Bay Area has definitely softened my Midwestern hide and it's also babied my palate and kitchen. I'm excited about checking out and cooking the fruits and vegetables I would have despised in my callow youth and remembering, celebrating my sturdy roots.