👋 Hi. How’s everyone doing? In my experience, January is consistently horrible and this year is no different. Last week’s insurrection was both terrifying and the logical conclusion of four years of violent, inflammatory rhetoric. I’ve been tethered to Twitter for days — doomscrolling and finding moments of awe, like learning about Capitol Police Officer Eugene Goodman’s split-second decisions that very likely saved lives while putting his own at risk. It’s felt like we’re on the precipice of something for a while now. I’m wondering where the edge is. As always, reply with questions, comments, or thoughts about anything you read here.

This issue features 22 brands. Fifty-nine percent are white-led, 18 percent are Black-led, and 23 percent are led by non-Black people of color. You can find the complete Chips + Dips inclusion index here.

The Chips 🐰

• New Yorker food writer Helen Rosner unpacked the politicization of pitches.

• Skincare company 54 Thrones is launching an Instagram series in which it spotlights and celebrates each of Africa’s 54 countries.

• Kind Regards is a forthcoming workwear company that’s anti-hustle culture.

• Paynter is making a minimal-impact t-shirt that travels just six miles throughout its production process.

• Everist makes water-activated haircare concentrates, similar to OWA.

• I’m liking the thoughtfulness of Rhea.

• Rebundle makes plant-based synthetic braiding hair…

• … and Rad Swan makes high-quality, recyclable synthetic wigs that mimic the volume and weight of natural hair.

• The Sibling is focused on bringing slow fashion to the Midwest through small, seasonal, multi-brand capsule collections.

• Borobabi is a circular marketplace for high-end baby clothes.

• Nyssa makes postpartum undergarments that can hold both ice and heat packs.

• Better Rhodes is a no-ABV marketplace.

• Fitness influencers Sweats and the City launched Sweats with Sweats, which bundles live-streamed studio classes.

• I'm intrigued by Farther Farms, a company seeking to improve food processing and preservation as a means of reducing waste.

The Dip 🐱

Over the summer, Aja Singer (no relation!) and I spoke about the patterns we were seeing in the consumer brand space. The conversation turned to the way that products like adaptogens were being marketed and how it felt icky and misleading and appropriative.

Given last week’s outcry over The Mahjong Line, the white-owned company seeking to quote-unquote reimagine mahjong (you can read about it here and here), the topic of appropriation and commoditization feels especially relevant.

There’s a lot to unpack, and this is in no way comprehensive or definitive. There’s a lot that I left out and a lot that I’m likely unaware of, but my hope is that this can spark conversation and encourage more critical thinking…

It’s a bird, it’s a plane...

Over the summer, I tweeted the following: “superfood” is a term used by companies to make traditionally non-white foods more palatable to white people send tweet. The word “superfood” has always bothered me (from a copywriting standpoint, it’s hollow and jargon-y), and based on the reaction to my tweet, I wasn’t alone in feeling that way…

As much as “superfood” is synonymous with “nutrient-rich ingredient,” it also suggests “non-Eurocentric ingredient that’s actually pretty cool.” The “superfood” label was applied to quinoa, a longtime Andean staple, and its price tripled between 2006 and 2013. In 2017, the New York Times dug into the complicated side effects of açai’s newfound fame.

The complexities of marketing foods as “functional” is an essay unto itself, but what I’m more interested in right now is how a single word acts as a permission slip. “Superfood” not only signals to consumers that something is new or different, but also tells them what to think of it. This isn’t to say that people wouldn’t, or couldn’t, otherwise care or know about the ingredients, but rather that the barrier to entry drops to zero once something has been labeled a “superfood.”

Here’s another example: Indian food is often wrongly perceived as unhealthy because it contains ghee or coconut milk or full-fat yogurt. Ayurvedic diets are trendy because they offer a balanced, healing-focused framework and signal virtuousness (see also: “Buddha bowl”). While I’m not an expert in Ayurvedic nutrition, it’s my understanding that Indian food often adheres to an Ayurvedic framework and uses Ayurvedic ingredients. So why is one more palatable than the other?

Who gets to be healthy

There’s an undercurrent of appropriation in the “superfood” stamp of approval and in the stateside popularity of Ayurvedic nutrition. Last month, Priya Krishna wrote about the issue of whiteness and Eurocentrism in dietetics:

In her dietetics program at the University of California, Davis, Ms. Wilson was the only Black student. A single day was devoted to what the curriculum called “ethnic diets.” “It was not, ‘These are interesting and awesome,’” she recalled. “It is, ‘These are why these diets are bad. Next class.’” 

Mexican food was dismissed as greasy. Indian food was heavy. Ms. Wilson was taught to prescribe a bland “kale-and-quinoa” diet. When she started treating patients — including many who, like her, are people of color or identify as queer — she learned how much those identities informed their perspectives on health, and how little she’d been taught about that.

Americans will happily seek out ingredients that have Goop’s seal of approval yet show little regard for their culture of origin. Matcha, long used in meditative tea ceremonies, has fallen victim to hustle culture. This isn’t to say that it’s necessarily bad that every coffee shop now serves matcha lattes, but rather that the commodification of matcha places those who adhere to tradition in the minority. In New York, Japanese tea shops like Ippodo and Setsugekka lack neon signs and Instagram-friendly interiors but are imbued with a thoughtfulness and intentionality that can’t be captured in a picture.

It’s not a matter of authenticity — a word that Fly By Jing’s Jing Gao rejects because of its binary and prescriptive nature — but rather an acknowledgment and celebration of a place of origin.

A new CPG company founded by a white man used the following sentence in its marketing materials: “We’re obsessed with bringing highly functional and delicious [product] to America.” There’s little mention of the product’s history or culture elsewhere on the site. This erasure gives the company the credit of invention — it appears to be popularizing a product that millions of people are already consuming daily. Sambazon, the company that brought açai to the US, follows a similar narrative, but at least gives back through a triple bottom line business model…

Companies like Diaspora, Nguyen Coffee Supply, and Té Company put a great deal of effort into sharing the stories behind their products, ensuring that their histories and contexts aren’t erased as they’re introduced to American audiences.

While Omsom describes itself as bringing real Asian flavors to the masses, it resists homogenization by partnering with chefs of different backgrounds to create recipes. The chef of Bessou, a Japanese restaurant, created Omsom’s Yuzu Misoyaki sauce; the chef of málà dry pot restaurant MáLà Project created its Mala Salad starter; its Sisig sauce comes from Jeepney, a Filipino restaurant. Like Fly By Jing, the Omsom team avoids the word “authentic” and instead seeks to “center the perspectives of those who deeply know the history and nuances of […] dishes and cuisines.”

Abracadabra

The “superfood” label also represents the fairy dust-ification of non-Eurocentric foods. Moon Juice, one of the earliest mass-market adaptogen labels, literally positions its adaptogens as cosmic dust. This shapes consumer perceptions of these products — that they’re exoticized cure-alls. In reality, adaptogens need to be consumed regularly to have an effect, and they often necessitate a lifestyle shift in order to be effective.

But Americans are rarely willing to go that far. Instead, we look to superfoods as a means of fixing things quickly and with little sacrifice, and cycle through trends with little regard for their culture of origin or long-term impact.

Still hungry?

• Taste explored how curry powder became a global ingredient.

• Food writers and recipe developers of color are often pigeonholed according to their identity…

• … while their white counterparts are often able to write about anything and everything.

• Bon Appetit found itself in hot water last summer after publishing a story about ethical saffron that neglected to address the effects that US sanctions have had on Iranian farmers. Appropriation isn’t the only issue plaguing the food space — government interference, honest wages, and grower autonomy are, too, as also illustrated by the ongoing farmer protests in India.

Real Dip 🦁

Citrus vinaigrette from Six Seasons.

Zest and juice one lemon, one lime, and one small blood orange. Put everything in a jar that has a lid you trust. Add a three-finger pinch of salt, 20 cracks of black pepper, and a blip of good honey. Drizzle in olive oil for five seconds and add a big glug of white wine vinegar. Screw the lid on the jar and shake everything really well.

Taste and see what’s missing. It might need more vinegar.

Plays well with roasted beets, charred Brussels sprouts, and farro.

Thanks for snacking,

— Emily 🐭