A Suburban Mom’s Crisis

 

There comes a time in every woman’s life—perhaps while packing her child’s lunch, or standing in a dimly lit pantry at 2 a.m. with a bag of cheese puffs—when she begins to wonder: What, exactly, am I feeding my family?

I remember the moment it hit me. I was arranging a plate of crackers and turkey roll-ups for the neighborhood book club, when I noticed the “cheddar” hadn’t aged a day—mainly because it was made in a laboratory. It wasn’t cheese. It was a “cheese-like substance," just like how there're "chicken-like substance."

You see, just because something is certified doesn’t mean it’s healthy. And I can't trust the food with my family's safety.

But then came salvation—or so I thought: Organic. The word itself practically purifies the air around it. I began replacing everything in my pantry: cookies, cereal, granola bars, even gummy bears, all wearing that magical green sticker. I spent more at Whole Foods than I did furnishing my guest powder room. It felt holy.

Until I looked closer. Those organic gummy bears? Still sugar. The “natural” cereal? Still came in a box with enough preservatives to survive the apocalypse. I realized then: organic is a growing sector with a projected market value of$286.4 billion in 2025, and $1.05 trillion by 2034.

Some nights I lie awake wondering how we got here. How we traded real food for flavor-engineered, shelf-stable confections. How “treats” became daily meals. How a box of macaroni has 37 ingredients, none of which resemble cheese.

In this house, we aim for balance. We roast vegetables with organic olive oil from Tuscany, then eat frozen waffles for breakfast. We shop local, but we binge on snacks with fun and pun names.

It’s not about being perfect. It’s about being awake, even if just long enough to read the label before you toss it in the cart.