So an interesting thing happened the other day. My eight-year-old daughter, who’s pretty much been raised without artificial food dyes–except for the occasional birthday cupcake or Halloween candy–was given a party bag that contained a single-serve packet of Kool Aid. Now, I grew up on Kool Aid, having spent summers with my grandparents in Nebraska, where fruit punch was considered juice. Remember that commercial where the kids yell, “Hey Kool Aid!” and a giant walking pitcher crashes through the wall? I lived for it. There was nothing better than gulping down a big glass of Kool Aid after riding my bike for hours in ninety-percent humidity. But after learning about the…