These ads reflected the optimism of the time, where industrial progress promised to make life easier. Food historian Harvey Levenstein explains that TV dinners symbolized efficiency, especially for women, who were expected to manage households while embracing new conveniences (Paradox of Plenty, Levenstein, 1993). The pitch was simple: dinner without the fuss of cooking or cleaning. But while the marketing focused on saving time, it also came with trade-offs. Preparing and sharing meals had traditionally been a way for families to connect. Now, with prepackaged meals, mealtime became more passive—less about cooking together and more about eating in front of the TV.

It’s also worth noting who these ads were really for. The smiling nuclear families in Swanson’s commercials were almost always white and middle-class. These meals weren’t cheap enough for many working-class families, nor were they marketed to Black households or other marginalized communities (Levenstein, 1993). The image of a perfect suburban family sitting down to TV dinners left out a huge part of America.

Swanson’s TV dinners also marked a turning point in how Americans ate. This was the beginning of processed and prepackaged meals becoming staples in households across the country. While they were celebrated as innovative, they contributed to a growing reliance on industrialized food systems, which has raised questions about health and nutrition ever since (Laudan, Cuisine and Empire, 2013). Looking back, these cheerful commercials captured more than just a product—they showed how food, technology, and culture were transforming together, for better or worse.

Works Cited

• Levenstein, Harvey. Paradox of Plenty: A Social History of Eating in Modern America. University of California Press, 1993.

• Laudan, Rachel. Cuisine and Empire: Cooking in World History. University of California Press, 2013.

• "1955 Swanson TV Dinner Commercial." YouTube, uploaded by Vintage Fanatic, 2012, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MPyIeS6SPGM.

• U.S. Census Bureau. "Household Television Ownership Rates, 1955."

The timing couldn’t have been better. After World War II, processed foods drew on the same preservation techniques—canning and dehydration—that had helped feed soldiers. Now, they were sold as symbols of American ingenuity and resourcefulness. Carole Counihan, in Food in the USA, explains that processed foods like Campbell’s aligned perfectly with the post-war pride in U.S. industry and innovation (Counihan, 2002). For suburban families, especially, they fit the new ideal of modern living: quick, easy, and dependable.

But for all their promise, these products weren’t as universal as the ads made them seem. Canned goods like Campbell’s were aimed squarely at middle-class suburban families, who had the appliances and disposable income to rely on such conveniences. Working-class households and rural families often continued to use fresh, local ingredients simply because they were cheaper and more accessible (Counihan, 2002). The ads also ignored entire communities, like Black and immigrant families, who were largely left out of the glossy, whitewashed picture of suburban domestic life.

Processed foods like Campbell’s also changed how Americans thought about eating. They normalized meals made with preservatives, salt, and additives, shifting public perceptions of what “healthy” looked like. Over time, this led to rising concerns about sodium levels and overly processed diets. While the 1950s celebrated these foods as practical and wholesome, the long-term health implications were rarely considered (Levenstein, Paradox of Plenty, 1993).

The Campbell’s soup ad from 1950 is more than just a marketing tool—it’s a window into the cultural shifts of the post-war era. It reflects how food became tied to ideas of patriotism, convenience, and community, while also hinting at the growing divide in how Americans accessed and thought about food. These ads helped shape not only what people ate but also what they believed about progress, modernity, and their place in a changing world.

Works Cited

• Counihan, Carole. Food in the USA: A Reader. Routledge, 2002.

• Levenstein, Harvey. Paradox of Plenty: A Social History of Eating in Modern America. University of California Press, 1993.

• "Campbell’s Ad 1950." Vintage Ads and Mags, https://vintageadsandmags.com/product/campbells-ad-1950/.

The body of the advertisement emphasizes Vimaltol’s scientifically engineered benefits, describing it as a “food of outstanding nutritive value” designed to “build up the body, increase strength and energy, and reinforce natural resistance to winter ills.” By listing its contents—B vitamins, vitamins A and D, minerals, and halibut liver oil—the ad projects authority and trust in its nutritional claims.

These elements reflect the cultural faith in science and technology during this period, as people increasingly turned to manufactured supplements to compensate for perceived deficiencies in their diets.

What sets this ad apart is its focus on taste. By claiming that Vimaltol’s “sweet orange flavor appeals irresistibly to everyone,” the brand positions itself as a product that marries function with indulgence. This was a strategic move, especially at a time when other vitamin supplements often had a reputation for being unpalatable. By emphasizing taste, Vimaltol transformed nutrition into something pleasurable, aligning with the growing consumer demand for convenience and enjoyment in health products.

However, much like other health supplements of its time, Vimaltol’s focus on convenience and taste reflects a shift away from natural, whole-food nutrition. It caters to an emerging middle-class ideal of health that could be “bought” and “taken” rather than prepared or grown. As Marion Nestle argues in Food Politics, these kinds of products laid the groundwork for a commodified approach to health, one that prioritized profit and branding over genuine dietary education.

This ad also appeals to maternal responsibility, showing the mother as the gatekeeper of her family’s health. Her smile and the happy expressions of the children underscore the social pressures placed on women to ensure their families were both nourished and happy, reinforcing traditional gender roles.

The Vimaltol ad, like many of its time, is more than a pitch for a product—it’s a snapshot of 1940s food culture. It reflects how food supplements were not just about health but also about convenience, indulgence, and the promises of science. It captures a moment when nutrition started shifting from the kitchen to the pharmacy, setting the stage for the health food industry we know today.

Works Cited

• Nestle, Marion. Food Politics: How the Food Industry Influences Nutrition and Health. University of California Press, 2002.

• "1940s Advertisement for Vimaltol Vitamin Food Supplement." Alamy Stock Photos, https://www.alamy.com/.

SlimFast wasn’t just selling a diet product—it was selling a lifestyle. This ad tapped into the cultural anxieties and ideals of the time, especially for women. The 1977 Senate Select Committee on Nutrition and Human Needs had warned Americans to reduce their fat intake, framing fat as the villain behind heart disease and other health issues (Senate Select Committee, 1977). The food industry quickly latched onto this fear, pumping out low-fat products and marketing them as the answer to both health and weight concerns. SlimFast was a perfect example, offering a convenient, low-fat solution in the form of shakes that claimed to be “nutritionally complete.”

But let’s be real—SlimFast wasn’t about balanced nutrition. It was about control. The commercial’s disciplined mantra—two shakes and a “sensible” dinner—was laser-focused on weight loss, not overall health. As Susan Bordo argues in Unbearable Weight, products like SlimFast reinforced the idea that women’s bodies were projects to be constantly managed and perfected (Bordo, 1993). The cheerful women in the ad, sipping their shakes with smiles, masked the underlying pressure: if you wanted to be happy, desirable, and successful, you needed to be thin.

And then there’s the reality of what was actually in those shakes. SlimFast, like so many other low-fat products of the time, replaced fat with sugar and artificial ingredients. Marion Nestle, in Food Politics, explains how this trade-off often left people feeling hungrier, leading to overconsumption and undermining any real health benefits (Nestle, 2002). SlimFast wasn’t about teaching people how to eat well; it was about creating a product that could be sold as a solution.

What’s striking—and frustrating—about this ad is how narrow its vision of health and beauty was. The women featured in the commercial were almost all white, slim, and middle-class. There was no room for diverse body types or cultural perspectives on health. As Susan Bordo points out in “Not Just ‘A White Girl’s Thing,’” diet culture has long marginalized Black and Latina women, whose cultural values around body image often celebrate curves and reject the thinness ideal perpetuated by Eurocentric media. The SlimFast ad didn’t just sell a product—it sold a very specific idea of what it meant to be beautiful, one that excluded a huge portion of the population.

For all its promises of ease and happiness, SlimFast’s messaging placed the burden squarely on the individual. It’s the classic “quick fix” narrative: if you’re not thin, it’s because you’re not disciplined enough. This ignored the deeper systemic issues, like access to fresh food and education about nutrition, that Marion Nestle critiques in her work (Nestle, 2002). For many working-class families, SlimFast and similar diet products weren’t even affordable. And for those who could buy them, the idea that you could simply “shake” your way to health was both misleading and unsustainable.

Looking back, the 1987 SlimFast commercial is a perfect snapshot of the era’s diet culture. It reflects a time when health was reduced to a marketing strategy, when food was commodified, and when beauty standards left little room for inclusivity. But it’s also a reminder of how far we still have to go. SlimFast may feel like a relic of the past, but its legacy—of quick fixes, unrealistic expectations, and the moralization of food—still echoes in today’s diet culture.

Works Cited

• Bordo, Susan. Unbearable Weight: Feminism, Western Culture, and the Body. University of California Press, 1993.

• Nestle, Marion. Food Politics: How the Food Industry Influences Nutrition and Health. University of California Press, 2002.

• Senate Select Committee on Nutrition and Human Needs. “Dietary Goals for the United States.” U.S. Government Printing Office, 1977.

• "SlimFast 1987 Commercial." YouTube, uploaded by 80sCommercialVault, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vBz7zF2n8K4.

The timing of Fonda’s Workout was no coincidence. By the late 1970s, America was fixated on fighting heart disease. The government’s 1977 dietary guidelines told everyone to cut down on fat, and the low-fat craze took off (U.S. Senate, 1977). This obsession with reducing fat didn’t just reshape food—it transformed fitness, too. Exercise became all about burning calories and controlling your body, and Fonda’s routines fit perfectly into this narrative. As Rachel Louise Moran writes in Governing Bodies, the 1980s pushed the idea that health was something individuals were completely responsible for. It didn’t matter if you had systemic barriers like poor food access or economic hardship—health was framed as a personal choice (Moran, 2018). Fonda’s workouts mirrored this mindset, placing a heavy emphasis on self-discipline and control. This imagery contributed to the normalization of a specific body ideal and the association of fitness with appearance rather than holistic health.

The visuals of Fonda’s Workout tell you a lot about the 1980s. Fonda and the women in her workout video all fit a very specific mold—thin, white, and picture-perfect—which sent a clear message about who fitness was "for."  As Rachel Louise Moran notes, these aesthetic choices made fitness look glamorous and fun, but they also carried subtle judgments about whose bodies needed “improvement” and whose didn’t (Moran, 2018). Bordo critiques how fitness and diet culture marginalized women of color, whose cultural frameworks of body positivity often celebrated curves and diverged from the thinness-obsessed ideals of the era (Bordo, 2003). The homogeneity of Fonda’s video sent a clear message: the fitness movement, much like the low-fat craze, catered to middle-and upper-class white women. For women of color or those with different body types, this kind of imagery sent a clear message: fitness—and the thinness it promised—wasn’t for them. 

The video’s overwhelming success also reflects the commodification of fitness in the 1980s. As fitness became a billion-dollar industry, products like VHS tapes, gym memberships, and branded equipment turned health into a purchasable lifestyle. Michael Pollan critiques this commercialization in Our National Eating Disorder, arguing that trends like Fonda’s video framed health as a personal endeavor while ignoring structural factors like food deserts and economic inequality (Pollan, 2006). By selling empowerment in the form of aerobics, Fonda’s video exemplified how fitness became both a status symbol and a consumer product. 

And it worked. By 1984, 80% of U.S. households with VCRs owned at least one workout tape, and Jane Fonda’s Workout led the pack (New York Times, 1984). For millions of women, Fonda made fitness accessible and fun, a way to take control of their bodies from the comfort of home. But as the National Eating Disorders Association points out, the 1980s also saw a sharp rise in eating disorders, driven by media messages that tied thinness to success and happiness (NEDA, 2021). The very same routines that empowered some women left others feeling trapped in a cycle of calorie-counting and self-criticism. 

Fonda’s workout video also marks a turning point in the evolution of fitness media. In the 1950s and 60s, televised fitness programs like The Jack LaLanne Show primarily focused on gentle exercises for flexibility and general well-being. By contrast, Fonda’s routines reflected the aggressive, calorie-focused, and, frankly, a little intimidating fitness trends of the 80s. Her videos were high-energy, image-driven, and heavily tied to the idea that your body was something to be “fixed.” The video’s focus on calorie-burning over strength or mental well-being reflected a limited understanding of health, one that prioritized appearance above all else.

The VHS format allowed women to work out in their living rooms, reinforcing the expectation that fitness, like other forms of self-care and beauty maintenance, should fit into domestic life. The video subtly reinforced the idea that a woman’s health and appearance were part of her responsibility as a wife and mother, aligning with traditional gender roles. Additionally, the routines in Workout emphasized flexibility and toning rather than strength or athleticism, reinforcing a culturally specific image of femininity that avoided “masculine” traits like muscularity or physical power. Strength training and other forms of exercise that might build muscle were downplayed in favor of movements designed to make women’s bodies smaller and more “delicate.” This contributed to a broader cultural message that women’s fitness should focus on slimming down, not bulking up.

Despite its limitations, Jane Fonda’s Workout was a groundbreaking moment in fitness culture. It brought exercise into the mainstream, encouraged women to embrace physical activity, and made fitness more accessible for those who preferred to work out at home. However, it also perpetuated exclusionary beauty standards, commodified health, and placed the burden of self-improvement squarely on individuals. Fonda’s cheerful encouragements and bright leg warmers might feel nostalgic now, but they also remind us how much diet and fitness culture have shaped—and sometimes constrained—our ideas about health and beauty.

Works Cited

• Bordo, Susan. Unbearable Weight: Feminism, Western Culture, and the Body. University of California Press, 1993.

• Moran, Rachel Louise. Governing Bodies: American Politics and the Shaping of the Modern Physique. University of Pennsylvania Press, 2018.

• National Eating Disorders Association (NEDA). “Historical Overview of Eating Disorders.” NEDA, 2021.

• Nestle, Marion. Food Politics: How the Food Industry Influences Nutrition and Health. University of California Press, 2002.

• New York Times. “Fitness Videos: Slim Sales on the Rise.” The New York Times, 1984.

• "Jane Fonda’s 1982 Workout Video." YouTube, uploaded by Vintage Fitness Vault, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YBd2mcDRRRA.

What stands out about this campaign is how it turned self-surveillance into a cultural norm. The pinch test was both physical and symbolic: you weren’t just measuring fat, but also your ability to live up to societal expectations. Susan Bordo, in Unbearable Weight, nails how ads like this didn’t just market products—they made women’s bodies feel like public projects, always up for critique and improvement (Bordo, 1993). The campaign tied a woman’s worth to her waistline, with Special K positioned as the “fix.”

The women in these ads were slim, white, and polished—the image of 1980s perfection. They represented what diet culture told us to aspire to: a narrow, Eurocentric standard of beauty. Sabrina Strings, in Fearing the Black Body, explains how this fixation on thinness didn’t just marginalize women with fuller figures—it also erased cultural frameworks that celebrated different body types, particularly in communities of color (Strings, 2019). The campaign reinforced the idea that being slim, and by extension being white and middle-class, was synonymous with being healthy and desirable.

But here’s the thing: that ideal was never universal. Many women, particularly women of color, had cultural traditions that embraced curves and saw beauty differently. The Special K ads didn’t just ignore this—they actively worked against it, promoting thinness as the only acceptable body type. And let’s not even get started on how class played into this. As Julie Guthman points out in Weighing In, diet culture has always been steeped in privilege, assuming access to things like Special K or other “healthy” products, while ignoring systemic barriers like food deserts or economic inequality (Guthman, 2011).

Special K didn’t just sell cereal; it sold the promise of control. The campaign wasn’t about nourishment or health—it was about achieving a specific look. Marion Nestle’s Food Politics delves into how the low-fat craze of the 1980s let food companies position products like Special K as health solutions, even though they were often loaded with sugar and refined carbs (Nestle, 2002). The “Pinch an Inch” campaign played right into this, making health seem like something you could buy in a cereal box.

What’s frustrating is how these ads framed body image as a personal responsibility while ignoring the bigger picture. Sure, you could pinch your stomach and eat cereal, but that didn’t address systemic issues like the lack of access to nutritious food for many communities. It was all about individual blame and effort, as if larger social factors didn’t matter.

The legacy of the “Pinch an Inch” campaign is hard to ignore. That hyper-focus on body measurement and the obsession with achieving thinness didn’t end in the 1980s. You can still see its influence in everything from calorie-counting apps to modern “wellness” culture. Michael Pollan, in In Defense of Food, talks about how these marketing strategies didn’t just reflect anxieties about weight—they shaped them, turning food into something to fear and bodies into things to fix (Pollan, 2008).

At its core, the “Pinch an Inch” campaign captured the worst of 1980s diet culture: the fixation on thinness, the moralization of body size, and the commodification of health. It wasn’t just selling cereal—it was selling a narrow, exclusionary definition of beauty that ignored the diverse realities of race, class, and cultural identity. Looking back, it’s clear that campaigns like this weren’t just about food; they were about shaping how we see ourselves—and that’s something we’re still grappling with today.

Works Cited

• Bordo, Susan. Unbearable Weight: Feminism, Western Culture, and the Body. University of California Press, 1993.

• Guthman, Julie. Weighing In: Obesity, Food Justice, and the Limits of Capitalism. University of California Press, 2011.

• Nestle, Marion. Food Politics: How the Food Industry Influences Nutrition and Health. University of California Press, 2002.

• Pollan, Michael. In Defense of Food: An Eater’s Manifesto. Penguin Books, 2008.

• Strings, Sabrina. Fearing the Black Body: The Racial Origins of Fat Phobia. NYU Press, 2019.

• "Special K's 'Pinch an Inch' Advertisement." Yahoo Lifestyle, https://www.yahoo.com/lifestyle/.

When Beyond Meat launched its plant-based burger in 2016, it wasn’t just introducing a new food—it was tapping into something much bigger. During the 2010s, people’s diets started to reflect their values more than ever before. Food in the 2010s had become more than just sustenance; it was a reflection of identity, values, and aspirations for a better world. Beyond Meat wasn’t simply catering to vegans; it was reimagining plant-based eating as mainstream, cool, and deeply aligned with the decade’s priorities of sustainability, wellness, and social responsibility (Willett et al., 2019).

Beyond Meat’s marketing leaned hard into the idea of change, showcasing burgers sizzling on grills that looked just like beef. The visuals were mouthwatering and intentional—this wasn’t rabbit food; it was real food. By focusing on taste and texture, alongside the environmental perks, Beyond Meat didn’t just target vegans. It went after flexitarians—people who weren’t quite ready to give up meat but wanted to cut back (Beyond Meat, 2016). The tagline “Go Beyond” didn’t just sell a burger; it sold a bigger idea: the chance to be part of something more sustainable, innovative, and forward-thinking.

Reports like the United Nations’ Livestock’s Long Shadow (2006) raised awareness about the massive environmental impact of meat production, pointing to deforestation, greenhouse gas emissions, and water consumption (UN Food and Agriculture Organization). Then came documentaries like Cowspiracy (2014) and What the Health (2017), which showed graphic images of factory farming and tied meat consumption to climate change and chronic disease. For many, Beyond Meat offered a way to make a difference without sacrificing the flavors and textures they loved. Their advertising campaigns didn’t just target vegans; they went after the flexitarians—people who weren’t ready to give up meat entirely but wanted to reduce their consumption. By saying “Go Beyond,” the brand invited everyone to participate in a movement toward a more sustainable future (Andersen & Kuhn, 2014; Andersen, 2017).

But it wasn’t just the message that worked—it was the medium. Social media, especially Instagram, played a huge role in making Beyond Meat a cultural phenomenon. If you logged onto the app in the late 2010s, you couldn’t scroll for long without seeing a perfectly styled plant-based burger, often surrounded by hashtags like #MeatlessMonday and #SustainableLiving. These posts weren’t just about food; they were about identity. As Emily Contois notes in Diners, Dudes, and Diets, social media transformed eating into an act of self-expression, where your meals reflected your values and aspirations. Beyond Meat fit seamlessly into this world, offering a way to eat “ethically” while still enjoying the foods you craved (Contois, 2020).

This shift was especially significant for men. Historically, eating meat was tied to traditional notions of masculinity, with plant-based diets dismissed as feminine or “soft” (Adams, 2010). Beyond Meat flipped that script. By enlisting male athletes and fitness influencers, the brand framed its burgers as performance-enhancing and eco-friendly, redefining what it meant to “eat like a man.” This wasn’t just smart marketing—it reflected broader cultural shifts as gender roles and health ideals became more fluid (Contois, 2020).

Still, it’s important to look critically at the larger forces behind Beyond Meat’s rise. As Marion Nestle argues in Food Politics, products like these are still tied to industrial food systems that prioritize profit over systemic change (Nestle, 2002). Beyond Meat’s burgers may not come from animals, but their production relies on large-scale agriculture, raising questions about scalability and true environmental sustainability. And while they were marketed as solutions for everyone, the price tag often told a different story. Michael Pollan’s In Defense of Food points out how wellness culture can reinforce class divides by tying health to expensive, aspirational products (Pollan, 2008). At $5 to $6 per burger, Beyond Meat wasn’t exactly an everyday option for lower-income families.

The plant-based burger’s popularity also spotlighted how food trends often gloss over deeper issues of food justice. For example, while Western consumers celebrated Beyond Meat as a sustainable alternative, agricultural workers in plant-based supply chains often faced poor working conditions and low wages. The conversation about ethical eating often left out the voices of those producing the food, reflecting a recurring blind spot in the wellness and sustainability movements (Mintz, 1985).

Ultimately, Beyond Meat’s impact was profound because it showed how food could be more than just something you eat—it could be a tool for change, a statement of values, and a way to feel part of something bigger. But it also highlighted the challenges of turning that vision into reality. For all its successes, Beyond Meat underscored the ongoing tension between making sustainable choices accessible and keeping them profitable.

The story of Beyond Meat’s plant-based burger is, in many ways, the story of the 2010s food culture itself. It’s about aspiration, identity, and the complex interplay of ethics, economics, and marketing. It’s a reminder that while food can inspire us to do better, it’s also deeply tied to the systems and inequalities we’re trying to change.

Works Cited

• Adams, Carol J. The Sexual Politics of Meat: A Feminist-Vegetarian Critical Theory. Continuum, 2010.
  Andersen, Kip, and Keegan Kuhn. Cowspiracy. A.U.M. Films, 2014.
  Andersen, Kip. What the Health. A.U.M. Films, 2017.

• Beyond Meat. "Our Mission." Beyond Meat, 2016, www.beyondmeat.com.
  Contois, Emily J.H. Diners, Dudes, and Diets: How Gender and Power Collide in Food Media and Culture. UNC Press, 2020.

• Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations. Livestock’s Long Shadow: Environmental Issues and Options. FAO, 2006.

• Nestle, Marion. Food Politics: How the Food Industry Influences Nutrition and Health. University of California Press, 2002.

• Pollan, Michael. In Defense of Food: An Eater’s Manifesto. Penguin Press, 2008.

• Willett, Walter, et al. “Food in the Anthropocene: The EAT–Lancet Commission on Healthy Diets from Sustainable Food Systems.” The Lancet, vol. 393, no. 10170, 2019, pp. 447–492.

But there’s a lot more to this story than just a health trend. For starters, the claims about açaí’s miraculous health benefits were, at best, overstated. Sure, studies have shown the berry is rich in antioxidants, but research published in Critical Reviews in Food Science and Nutrition found no hard evidence linking açaí to the dramatic anti-aging or disease-fighting powers that The Dr. Oz Show promised (de Souza et al., 2010). Scholars such as Marion Nestle have criticized these representations, arguing in Food Politics that media-driven health trends oversimplify complex dietary needs, prioritizing marketable narratives over scientific accuracy (Nestle, 2002). 

By the 2000s, eating wasn’t just about sustenance—it was about identity and values. Açaí, like other "superfoods," fit perfectly into this narrative. It wasn’t just something you ate; it was a statement. It said, "I care about my health," "I care about the planet," and, let’s be honest, "I’m trendy." But what the Dr. Oz segment—and the craze it sparked—didn’t tell you was how this sudden global demand for açaí would impact the Amazonian communities that had relied on it for centuries.

Açaí wasn’t a new discovery. It had been a dietary staple for Indigenous Amazonian communities for generations. But after it became a global trend, the price of açaí soared, making it harder for locals to afford. A study in Environmental Research Letters revealed how this price hike, driven by Western demand, disrupted local economies and even contributed to food insecurity in some areas (Brondízio et al., 2013). On top of that, the rush to meet international demand led to monocropping—intensive single-crop farming—that degraded the soil and threatened biodiversity in the Amazon.

This is where things get tricky. On one hand, the açaí boom brought economic opportunities to some farmers, but on the other, it came at a cost. The very communities that cultivated and depended on açaí were often left behind as the berry was rebranded and sold as an exotic health solution for Western consumers. As Jonatan Leer points out in "Monocultural and Multicultural Gastronationalism," this kind of cultural appropriation is a hallmark of the superfood trend: taking Indigenous foods, stripping them of their context, and repackaging them as trendy commodities for profit (Leer, 2017). Scholars like Michael Pollan have also critiqued how superfood trends prioritize Western consumer markets at the expense of local producers. In In Defense of Food, Pollan points out that these trends often celebrate the "discovery" of Indigenous foods without acknowledging the exploitative structures that emerge around their production (Pollan, 2008).

The media played a huge role in this, not just through shows like The Dr. Oz Show, but also through platforms like Instagram. By the late 2000s, your feed was probably full of açaí bowls—bright purple, perfectly styled, and topped with granola and fruit. These weren’t just meals; they were symbols of wellness and affluence, often tagged with #CleanEating and #Superfood. As Emily Contois argues in Diners, Dudes, and Diets, food trends like these became about more than just health; they became a way to craft and display identity (Contois, 2020). But these posts rarely told the story of the Amazonian farmers or the environmental costs of growing all that açaí.

Social media further amplified this appropriation. Platforms like Instagram flooded with aesthetically curated images of açaí bowls, often topped with granola and fruit, portraying them as symbols of wellness and affluence. These posts, frequently tagged with #Superfood and #CleanEating, reinforced class and racial divides by framing health as a luxury rather than a universal right. Critics like Sarah Banet-Weiser argue in Authenticity™: Brand Culture in the Commercial World that such representations commodify authenticity and privilege certain aesthetics over genuine engagement with cultural origins (Banet-Weiser, 2012).

And let’s not forget the environmental angle. Açaí was marketed as a sustainable choice—natural, plant-based, good for you and the planet. But the reality is more complicated. The monocropping required to meet global demand degraded the soil and disrupted ecosystems in the Amazon. It’s a pattern we’ve seen before: a well-meaning trend with unintended consequences. The Environmental Research Letters study pointed out how these practices undermined the ecological balance of the region, raising questions about the sustainability of turning traditional foods into global commodities (Brondízio et al., 2013).

So, what do we make of all this? On one level, the 2009 Dr. Oz Show segment on açaí berries reflects how food trends can take off when they hit the right mix of aspiration and marketing. Açaí became a symbol of the wellness culture that defined the 2000s, promising health, sustainability, and a touch of the exotic. But it also shows how those trends and the media can oversimplify, commodify, and even harm the very systems they claim to improve.

It’s a cautionary tale about how we consume food—and the stories we tell about it. Açaí isn’t just a berry, and it’s not just a superfood. It’s a window into the complexities of global food systems, cultural appropriation, and the power of media to shape what we eat and why.

Works Cited

• Banet-Weiser, Sarah. Authenticity™: Brand Culture in the Commercial World. NYU Press, 2012.

• Brondízio, Eduardo S., et al. "The Sustainability of Açaí Agroforestry in the Amazon." Environmental Research Letters, vol. 8, no. 2, 2013, pp. 1–10.

• Contois, Emily. Diners, Dudes, and Diets: How Gender and Power Collide in Food Media and Culture. University of North Carolina Press, 2020.

• de Souza, Marcelo O., et al. "Antioxidant Properties of Açaí (Euterpe oleracea): Review and Evaluation." Critical Reviews in Food Science and Nutrition, vol. 50, no. 8, 2010, pp. 618–629.

• Leer, Jonatan. "Monocultural and Multicultural Gastronationalism." Food, Culture & Society, vol. 20, no. 4, 2017, pp. 489–504.

• Nestle, Marion. Food Politics: How the Food Industry Influences Nutrition and Health. University of California Press, 2002.

• Pollan, Michael. In Defense of Food: An Eater’s Manifesto. Penguin Press, 2008.

But there’s another side to the sourdough story that’s often overlooked. While media and social platforms like Instagram romanticized sourdough baking, turning it into the ultimate pandemic pastime, they ignored the harsh realities that many people were facing. The pandemic caused unprecedented spikes in food insecurity—by mid-2020, Feeding America reported that more than 35 million people lacked consistent access to food. At the same time, grocery store shelves were cleared of essentials like flour and yeast, leaving many unable to join the so-called universal sourdough experience. It wasn’t universal at all; it was a privilege.

Marginalized communities bore the brunt of these inequalities. According to a Brookings Institution report, Black and Latino households faced significantly higher rates of food insecurity during the pandemic. For these families, baking bread wasn’t a leisurely escape or an Instagram-worthy hobby—it was often an impossibility. And yet, mainstream food media largely ignored these disparities, instead framing sourdough as a feel-good trend that anyone could enjoy. It became a symbol of privilege, reflecting the gulf between those who had the time and resources to bake and those who didn’t.

At its heart, the sourdough revival reflected the deeper ways the pandemic reshaped how we think about food. It wasn’t just about making bread—it was about finding comfort and connection. But as food scholar Emily Contois points out in Diners, Dudes, and Diets, social media often transforms food into a kind of performance, where what you eat (or bake) signals your identity and values. During the pandemic, posting your perfectly scored sourdough loaf wasn’t just about sharing a recipe—it was about showcasing resilience, creativity, and a sense of purpose. The platform rewarded those who could participate in this aestheticized version of coping, leaving others behind.

The gendered dynamics of sourdough baking are another layer worth unpacking. Bread-making has traditionally been seen as domestic labor, but during the pandemic, it was rebranded as self-care and creativity. The act of baking a loaf wasn’t just about feeding your family—it became a meditative practice, a way to take a break from Zoom calls and doomscrolling. And yet, as Arlene Avakian points out in Through the Kitchen Window, the idea of empowerment through cooking often obscures the unpaid labor and societal expectations that still fall disproportionately on women.

Even as sourdough baking was celebrated as a return to simplicity, it quickly became commodified. Specialty flours, banneton baskets, and high-end scoring tools flew off the shelves, with companies capitalizing on the trend. Marion Nestle’s Food Politics points out how the food industry consistently profits from cultural moments like this, turning even the most “authentic” practices into lucrative markets. The irony? The trend was framed as a return to basics, yet it often required expensive tools and ingredients, excluding those without the means to participate.

The sourdough craze also highlighted how fragile our global food systems really are. The sudden demand for flour and yeast during lockdowns overwhelmed supply chains, leading to widespread shortages. For wealthier households, this was an inconvenience. For others, it was another layer of stress in an already precarious situation.

In the end, the sourdough trend tells a complicated story about food, privilege, and the pandemic. For those who could participate, it was a source of comfort, a way to feel grounded when everything else felt out of control. But for many others, it was a glaring reminder of the inequalities that the pandemic made impossible to ignore. By looking critically at trends like this, we can start to understand how food media shapes not just what we eat, but how we experience and perceive the world around us. It’s a reminder to celebrate food in all its forms—not just the ones that fit neatly into an Instagram post.

Works Cited

• Avakian, Arlene. Through the Kitchen Window: Women Explore the Intimate Meanings of Food and Cooking. Berg, 1997.

• Brookings Institution. “Food Insecurity During COVID-19 in Households with Children.” 2020.

• Contois, Emily. Diners, Dudes, and Diets: How Gender and Power Collide in Food Media and Culture. University of North Carolina Press, 2020.

• Feeding America. “The Impact of the Coronavirus on Food Insecurity in 2020.” 2020.

• Nestle, Marion. Food Politics: How the Food Industry Influences Nutrition and Health. University of California Press, 2002.

The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. Butter boards hit the scene just when we needed them—a moment when food culture was ready to let its hair down. For years, we’d been drowning in wellness trends: green juices, keto everything, and the endless rules about what we should eat. Butter boards flipped the script. They weren’t about optimization or health halos. They were messy, rich, indulgent, and downright fun. As Ruby Tandoh writes in Eat Up, food doesn’t always have to be perfect or virtuous; sometimes, it just needs to make you happy. And that’s exactly what butter boards did. They brought joy back to the table—a chance to spread butter, tear bread, and gather around something that was as beautiful as it was delicious. It felt like a collective sigh of relief after years of taking food way too seriously.

This trend, popularized by food influencers and casual creators alike, highlights the way social media reshaped our relationship with food in the 2020s. But like so many social media-driven trends, butter boards also walked the line between authenticity and performance. The rustic, communal appeal was carefully curated, often framed to look effortless while being anything but. As Sarah Banet-Weiser points out in Authentic™: The Politics of Ambivalence in a Brand Culture, “authenticity” in modern food culture often becomes a performance itself, designed to attract attention and engagement.

There is something undeniably joyful about this trend. After the isolation and practicality of pandemic eating, butter boards felt like a celebration. They weren’t designed to be eaten alone; they were meant for gathering, dipping, scooping, and laughing with others. It was the messy, tactile fun of communal eating that we’d all been missing. As Ruby Tandoh so eloquently writes in Eat Up, food isn’t just about feeding ourselves—it’s about connection, memory, and pleasure, and butter boards hit all those notes (Tandoh, 2018).

But, of course, TikTok being TikTok, it wasn’t just about the eating—it was about the spectacle. A butter board wasn’t complete without a perfectly styled video: the spread had to gleam just right, the bread had to be artisanal, and the toppings had to scream luxury. It became a visual performance as much as a culinary one. Social media has a way of turning even the simplest things into aspirational moments, and as Sarah Banet-Weiser argues in Authentic™, these performances blend authenticity with curation, making them feel both relatable and impossibly polished (Banet-Weiser, 2012).

But let’s talk about those toppings—truffle honey, edible flowers, imported salts. The butter board trend may have felt accessible at first glance, but for many, it wasn’t. The premium ingredients showcased in viral videos highlighted a class divide, where some people could splurge on fancy garnishes while others couldn’t even afford a stick of butter due to rising food costs. Marion Nestle’s Food Politics points out how food trends like this can often mask deeper inequalities, framing luxury as everyday while leaving out those who can’t participate (Nestle, 2002).

Moreover, the butter board’s virality on TikTok underscores the platform's power in shaping and amplifying food culture. What might have remained a niche dining-room experiment exploded into a global sensation because of the app’s visual-first approach and algorithmic amplification. As Emily Contois discusses in Diners, Dudes, and Diets, social media has turned food into social currency, where meals aren’t just consumed—they’re performed, shared, and validated through likes and comments (Contois, 2020).

Still, the butter board wasn’t just about the food. It was a snapshot of where we were culturally in 2024—longing for connection, craving indulgence, and loving any excuse to turn a meal into a moment. TikTok amplified this perfectly, turning the butter board into a global phenomenon that brought people together, even as it exposed the divides in how we experience food. Whether you actually made one or just watched it happen on your screen, the butter board was a little piece of joy in a complicated time, a reminder of the beauty in sharing something simple.

Works Cited

• Banet-Weiser, Sarah. Authentic™: The Politics of Ambivalence in a Brand Culture. New York University Press, 2012.

• Contois, Emily J.H. Diners, Dudes, and Diets: How Gender and Power Collide in Food Media and Culture. University of North Carolina Press, 2020.

• Nestle, Marion. Food Politics: How the Food Industry Influences Nutrition and Health. University of California Press, 2002.

• Tandoh, Ruby. Eat Up: Food, Appetite and Eating What You Want. Serpent's Tail, 2018.

• TikTok. #ButterBoard. TikTok, 2024, https://www.tiktok.com/tag/butterboard.