Yuen: Why it's not rude to ask your houseguests to take their shoes off

Sometimes you just have to wonder if those elites at the New York Times are purposely trolling us. I'm old enough to remember the Great Grape Salad Controversy of 2014, when the Times' food journalists declared a special Thanksgiving dish that evoked each of the 50 states.

Was Minnesota's contribution something with walleye or wild rice, sambusas or Spam? Nope. It was "grape salad." Because nothing elicits a Minnesota chef's kiss like a bowl of sour cream, a cup of brown sugar and two pounds of grapes. Grape salad, it seemed, was about as fictional as Paul Bunyan. The only difference was that most Minnesotans have heard of Paul Bunyan.

The latest regional snub to come by way of the Gray Lady was a seemingly innocuous write-up on "How to Party." The reporters interviewed "highly sociable people," from party planners to artists and designers, to glean their tips on being a gracious host.

Event planner and interior designer Rebecca Gardner laid down this edict: "Please don't ask people to take off their shoes when entering your apartment. It's rude."

It's rude to ask guests to take their shoes off? How about it's rude to enter someone's home and track germs and gunk onto their floors with indifference?

I'll admit my obvious biases. I grew up in an Asian household where shoes off was our cultural norm. But I also married a man from northern Minnesota whose family abided by the same shoes-off dogma. (Our other shared non-negotiable upon exchanging vows was that the toilet paper should flow over the front of the roll like a beard, not from the back like a mullet. This is the only respectable way.)

For those of us who live in an environment like Minnesota, with snow and actual weather, most of us would never insist on tromping dirt, salt, grime and sand into someone's home and embedding it into their carpets. I can't imagine that the streets of New York are much cleaner.

Going shoeless says I care enough about you to help keep your home clean. Inviting you into my shoeless home means we are friends.

As my fellow Taiwanese-American writer Jeff Yang put it, "Outside in your shoes you're a stranger among strangers, but in your stocking feet at home, you're part of the family."

When I called Minnesota etiquette trainer Juliet Mitchell about this topic, she couldn't help but erupt into laughter — and choose her words carefully. The shoes-on-or-off debate apparently is a lightning rod for the ages.

"I hope I can shed a little light and not cause a riot in the Twin Cities," she said. "Some people just have really strong feelings."

Off the bat Mitchell confirmed one thing: This topic can be seen through a regional lens.

The Louisiana native said she didn't grow up with the expectation to go shoeless when entering someone's home. But after she moved to Minnesota in 1991, she encountered the practice frequently, and it seemed to her like a no-brainer because of the elements. She quickly adopted it as her own policy when inviting guests to her home.

Of course, there are some exceptions. People who have diabetic neuropathy or other mobility issues that require them to wear shoes in the house get a free pass. Same for elderly people who can't easily bend down. Mitchell said she also wouldn't insist on shoeless guests if she were hosting a formal dinner party.

When entering someone's home, she advised, look for context clues. If you see pairs of shoes stacked up at the doorstep, that's a signal that you should probably take yours off, too. If you're unsure, ask the host if they have a preference.

I liken it to wishing someone "happy holidays" if you don't know what they're celebrating in December, if anything at all. Show respect. Don't presume. And when you're a guest, don't impose your personal beliefs on others.

For what it's worth, about two-thirds of Americans keep their shoes off in their own homes, according to a CBS News poll. And yet most of the survey respondents said they did not demand the same for their visitors.

But what about the science? Surely the research would prove that a shoes-off household is better for a family's health and safety, right?

Turns out, the case for and against wearing shoes in the house is anything but settled. Studies show that shoes from outside the home do track in nasty things like fecal bacteria, most likely from dog waste in the neighborhood and germs in public restrooms.

But some experts say the risks that come with wearing shoes in the house are not especially hazardous in the context of all the other harmful germs and chemicals we are exposed to. They say when it comes to the shoes-off debate, it's important to separate matters of hospitality from health.

"It's up to the individual house owner to set the rules," said Teddie Potter, who directs the Center for Planetary Health and Environmental Justice at the University of Minnesota School of Nursing. "You don't have to go into any rationale about why that's necessary. It's really reaching and grasping, and a misuse of science, to say that shoes are dangerous."

She would much rather people focus on washing their hands before they eat and every time they use the bathroom to prevent pathogens from entering our bodies. Potter added that we should also channel more of our energy into supporting national legislation that keeps our air and water clean.

As for her own home, Potter wears a pair of house slippers and politely asks guests to take off their boots when it's wet outside. In other conditions, she says, "it's not a big enough worry to risk ruining a relationship and say, 'You cannot visit me if you do not remove your shoes.'"

Fair enough. And while I'm in this mode of continuous learning, I'll share one last tidbit with you.

Over the Fourth of July some friends on a lake up north invited our family to a fish fry and potluck. Multiple families were shuffling in and out, past the sliding screen door. About a dozen sandals and slides were left at the cabin's doorstep, and still about half of the people were wearing their shoes in the house. But that's not the whole point of this story.

A few of us were milling about the kitchen island, grazing on appetizers and dips when another mom came in toting her contribution to the spread. She lifted the lid to her plastic container and announced that she had made some chilled grape salad.

Ecstatic to see that this concoction in real life, I dug in. And I have to say, I enjoyed every bit of that once-mythical recipe — standing and savoring, in my bare, sandy feet.