First they came for the formula. Then they came for my childhood. Then I needed wine.
When I was a little girl, things tasted like things. Cereal tasted like cereal. Meanwhile, chocolate tasted like chocolate. The specific frozen dinner my mother heated up when she was too tired to cook tasted like love and a lack of other options. It was perfect.
Now? They’ve changed it. All of it. And yet, no one will admit it.
They Think We Won’t Notice
Last week, I bought a box of the cereal I ate every Saturday morning in 1987. Same box. Same cartoon mascot. Additionally, the same promise of “part of a balanced breakfast,” which we all knew meant “eat this with guilt.”
But the taste? Different. Wrong. It’s like someone took my childhood and reformulated it for a generation that doesn’t deserve it.
I called the company. Specifically, I said, “You changed the recipe.” They said, “Ma’am, the formula has been consistent since 1994.” And I said, “Exactly. 1994. I was already twelve. You changed it.”
They hung up. They always do.
It’s Not Just Cereal
The cookies are different. Similarly, the chips are different. The specific brand of boxed macaroni that got me through my first divorce tastes like betrayal now. Convenient, given the circumstances.
My daughter—who I have every other weekend—says I’m imagining things. She’s seventeen. As a result, she doesn’t remember when America tasted right. She’s been eating the compromised versions her whole life. Consequently, she doesn’t know what she’s lost.
I do. And I carry that knowledge like a burden. Also like a very full wine glass, but that’s unrelated.
What Happens When Nostalgia Is Ruined
When they change a recipe, they’re not just altering ingredients. Instead, they’re saying that the past doesn’t matter. They’re saying that my memories—of my mother’s kitchen, of Saturday mornings, of a time when my metabolism forgave me—are not worth preserving.
This is cultural erasure, served in a resealable bag. It’s similar to what I wrote about when my grocery store changed its layout—another sign that nothing is sacred anymore.
The Wine Helps
I’ve tried to recreate the old flavors. For instance, I’ve searched the international aisle. I’ve ordered from sketchy websites promising “original formula.” I’ve stood in my kitchen at 2 PM on a Tuesday, glass in hand, tasting and weeping.
Nothing works. The past is gone. They took it. Furthermore, they put it in a focus group and decided it needed to be “cleaner” or “more appealing to modern palates” or some other phrase that means “worse.”
In Conclusion
If you’re reading this and you work for a food company: know that I see you. Know that every time you optimize a formula, you’re optimizing away someone’s soul. Moreover, know that I remember how things were. And I will never stop tasting the difference.
Call me old-fashioned. Call me dramatic. Call me at 9 PM, because that’s when I’m most articulate.
They changed my childhood. My nostalgia is ruined. And I will never forgive them. However, I will continue purchasing the products, because where else am I supposed to shop? The farmers market closes at noon and I have a schedule.
About the Author
