"Good Health" Makes a Bad Decision

View fullsize

The front of the old bag (Mickey, left) compared to the new bag (Monster, right). Click to enlarge.

If you, like me, are always looking for ways to sneak vegetable-like substances into your picky-eater’s diet, please note this massive bait and switch from “Good Health” with their “Veggie Chips.”

SOME VEGETABLES AND ALL VITAMINS HAVE BEEN REMOVED AND A CANCER WARNING HAS BEEN ADDED 

I repeat.  

SOME VEGETABLES AND ALL VITAMINS HAVE BEEN REMOVED AND A CANCER WARNING HAS BEEN ADDED 

And yes: I know. Dehydrated vegetables are no substitute for fresh ones. But the struggle to get my kid to the fresh variety is very real, y’all. So whenever we opted for a processed food for snack time, we turned to things like Good Health Veggie Chips because their nutritional profile blew away the competition. They were loaded with actual dehydrated vegetables and herbs; and since throwing a bunch of vegetable powder into a processed snack doesn’t pack the nutritional wallop of eating fresh veggies, they previously added a host of vitamins to help mimic the impact. In fact: their previous formula included nine types of dehydrated vegetables and herbs (I’m not counting “dehydrated potato” in that number for obvious nutritional deficits) and six different vitamins.  

So when I saw they were marketing a new monster-shaped chip just in time for Halloween but didn’t shout “new recipe!” on their packaging, I wrongly assumed the fun shape was the only thing that was different. We were running low and I was looking for “healthy” Halloween-themed treats for my lone trick-and-treater, so I eagerly threw them into my cart without a second thought.  

View fullsize

The back of the old bag (left) compared to the new bag (right). Click to enlarge.

Until I got them home, that is, and I realized the word “veggie” was suspiciously missing from the small-type description in the lower left-hand corner of the bag. So I flipped the bag over and realized the “ingredient” list was significantly shorter on the new packaging. Normally I’m all for processed foods having as few ingredients as possible, but not when the ingredients are a variety of vegetables and vitamins. So I looked more closely and was pretty appalled.  

The new formula has three fewer dehydrated vegetables/herbs (I’m giving them a pass on the missing “dehydrated garlic,” as the new formula replaces it with “garlic powder”). It’s missing beets, carrots and broccoli and ALL SIX ADDED VITAMINS.  

They’ve also added a few things, including 62% more fat, rice flour, potassium chloride, potassium citrate and citric acid. And last and certainly not least: a cancer warning. Yes, that’s right: a cancer warning.  

There’s a lot to unpack here, and I will admit now: although I primarily write in the healthcare space and am no stranger to related research, I’m not a doctor, scientist or nutritionist. But when I see the presence of more fat AND a cancer warning tied to acrylamide – a chemical that can form in some foods due to high-temperature cooking – I can’t help but wonder if there’s a connection. The presence of more oil/fat leads me to believe the new formula is being fried at a higher temperature (and thereby introducing an unsafe chemical into the finished product). 

It’s worth noting that many potato chips and fries (and even some coffee) are required by the state of California to include an acrylamide warning due to high cooking temperatures. But it’s also worth noting that the previous formula didn’t require such a warning, and the need to include one now, to me, is an enormous contradiction to the brand name: Good Health.  

As for the potassium chloride and potassium citrate: these are sometimes used as salt substitutes and to regulate acidity, respectively, and aren’t necessarily alarming. But this formula also still includes “salt” and the exact same amount of sodium as the previous recipe, which leads me to believe they felt the flavor was lacking and wanted to add more “salt-like quality” without increasing sodium levels. This results in a negligible amount of potassium (2% of the RDA) appearing in each serving, which can be a good thing. But with the appearance of potassium in the new formula comes a reduction in the amount of iron from 2% to zilch. So in a way, it’s a wash.

In any event, it seems these additions are intended to make up for what the new formula was otherwise lacking. We haven’t tasted them yet – in fact, we plan on returning them – but after I realized these chips were markedly different from the originals, I took a peek at online reviews and noticed a remarkable decline in ratings between the old and new formula. Seven months ago, every Target reviewer gave Good Health Veggie Chips 5 out of 5 stars. But starting about three months ago – presumably about the time these were introduced – the ratings dropped. 50% of all ratings since then have been 1 out of 5 stars, with one reviewer calling them “oily and gross” in comparison to the prior version. Multiple reviewers comment on the texture, with one noting: “The [previous formula] felt more like baked chips, while these monster ones are more air-y and feel like they're fried.”

If this reviewer is correct about the change in cooking method, that would certainly explain the addition of a cancer warning. I plan on reaching out to the company to confirm and will update this story once I know more, but given the timing of the new chips’ release, I didn’t want to delay sending this alert out to regular buyers.

My hope here is that these monster chips – as difficult as their cuteness is to resist in the days leading up to Halloween – are a temporary thing. That once Halloween passes, they’ll go not just with a different design, but also return to their original formula. But whether this is a short-or-long-term recipe, the fact remains: to market them as the same chip is deceptive at best.

If this is a long-term switch, I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s a cost-saving measure. But I think Good Health might find their sales negatively impacted by this move, with the previous formula’s nutritional value having been the reason many of us chose them over other brands. For me, this deceptive switch has significantly damaged their brand, and I suspect it will have a lasting impact on their sales. In which case: saving up-front now might cost them in the long run.

The Gift of Light

My daughter’s high-pitched voice is typical for someone her age: it drips like honey so damn sweet, some days I could eat her words. But when she recently said, “I want to make a gift for Grandma and Papaw,” it was the resolve in her voice—a drive well beyond her years—that really caught my attention. “I want to make something they can see from heaven,” she said.

The words hit like a gut punch that re-filled my body with the same sadness I’ve been pushing down for what feels like eons. Think of a video game character low on life force receiving a sudden surge of energy; now, imagine that energy is fueled entirely by grief that never truly diminishes.

And no: this sadness isn’t rooted in my mother’s recent passing, nor my father’s passing just a few months prior. Rather: if really pressed to trace its origins, I’d say this melancholy Big Bang sparked when my father first started losing his balance and dexterity, and then multiplied exponentially with every new symptom, every fruitless medical exam, every horrifying prognosis (and so on). These things pulled me toward the event horizon, and their deaths pushed me the rest of the way in.

There is no turning back, and most days I feel like I’m floating weightless in space, witnessing life at a distance and just waiting for cosmic forces to do what they will. But occasionally my daughter pulls me back down and wakes me up, a 33-pound anchor with just enough force to tether me momentarily to this planet.

“OK,” I said, looking down as she strained her neck to make eye contact. “What would you like to make for them?”

I expected a lot of hemming and hawing, but her quick reply indicated she’d been giving this a lot of thought long before she vocalized her request.

“A rainbow for Grandma and a sun-catcher for Papaw,” she said without missing a beat.

I told her we would make both, or we could possibly even make a rainbow sun-catcher—a single gift they could share—but it would be a few days, because we needed to think about the best way to approach the project(s). So we studied rainbows and light, and I explained how, in a way, a rainbow is a sun-catcher: that it is a refraction and dispersion of light cast by the sun. 

And so one day while watering the flowers at my mother’s house, with the sun beating down from over our shoulders, she hatched an idea: “We can make a rainbow for Grandma to see right now! You make the rainbow, and I will catch it for Papaw!”

And so I did. And she did. And I thought our project was complete.

“No, no, no,” she said when I intimated as much later that day. “I still want to make a rainbow for Grandma and a sun-catcher for Papaw. Something they can see forever. I want to draw the rainbow, but I don’t know how to make a sun-catcher.”

I told her I would research ideas. A few more days passed, and she grew increasingly insistent.

“Mom, I really need to make those gifts for Grandma and Papaw,” she said. “How else will they know I love and miss them?”

There was no denying the urgency in her voice. I gathered the necessary supplies and we got to work, the only real hiccup being the lack of proper “indigo” and “violet” markers (she was insistent we make the rainbow exactly according to prism specifications). But we improvised with what we had, and she beamed with pride upon the completion of each project.

And then even more so a couple days later when we turned her drawing into a t-shirt she can wear whenever she wants to send a message to her grandmother. And I suppose she’ll beam again when we frame the original, but that is a project for another day.

---

Somewhere in-between the first arch of the rainbow and the finished shirt it hit me: we were completing these gifts on the eve on my parents’ wedding anniversary. Their first one since my father passed away. Their first one since my mother passed away. Their first once since my jaw became inexorably clenched in its current position.  

I gaze at the sun-catcher, now irreverently taped to our window, and notice a puff of air eke out of my lungs. It travels up through my trachea and escapes from behind my teeth. A sigh.

I try to focus on the light but find myself succumbing to the push and pull of gravity and inertia—of nothingness and everything—all at once.

My feet rise from the Earth and then come down again, every hushed step and terrible stomp a battle between unseen forces. 

I go where they take me.

The Dying of the Light

It has been two months since my father took his last breath. Two months, and still the most innocuous of scenes can trigger a gut punch that renders me nauseous and exhausted, craving sleep to shut out the memories.

Yesterday some loose skin on my daughter’s dry lips had that very effect. I don’t think I will ever look at faces the way I did before.

And I appreciate the beauty of a sip of water more than ever, knowing that some day there might come a time when I want nothing more and yet: cannot swallow.

Does anyone ever truly go “gentle” into that good night? Years ago when I first read Dylan Thomas’ best-known poem — quite possibly in my father’s seventh grade English class — I thought the poet’s words were solely a command to his father.

But now, a little wiser and certainly more weary, I see the poem’s “rage” in an entirely new light.

Two months have passed. And I am seething.

On Caroll Spinney's Passing

Caroll Spinney with Big Bird, his largest creation.
AP

One of my earliest memories as a child is being sucked through a clear plastic tube – a la those pneumatic tubes that bank drive-ups use – and zipped through a hospital, naked and exposed for all of the world to see while I screamed at the top of my lungs for someone to let me out.

Scratch that. One of my earliest NIGHTMARES as a child – one that continued to haunt me well into adulthood – was the result of being alone in a children’s hospital, my parents unable to be there all day, every day, with solo trips to CT scans and MRI machines leaving me with a lifelong fear of confined spaces and surly nurses.

It was a scary time for me, and it left a deep mark I still can’t entirely shake.

But there was one bright light. It was yellow, covered in soft feathers, and gifted to me by my big brother, who was visibly holding back tears as he gave it to me to keep me safe at the hospital.

It was a Big Bird doll in honor of my favorite Sesame Street character (the fact that he became my hospital buddy made me love him all the more). I have vague recollections of talking to him, and him to me, my little brain processing all the lessons I’d learned from the show and applying them to my new, terrifying world.

I remember, too, when my family moved a few years later, and that doll was somehow lost in the shuffle. Whether my parents donated him or tossed him and thought I wouldn’t notice or we just never unpacked that box, I don’t know, but I remember feeling so sad, so alone, when I couldn’t find him.

I felt a little like that today when I heard about Caroll Spinney’s passing. It’s so strange how the death of a celebrity – of someone we’ve never met but feel like we know – hits us in the gut. And though I’m sure Big Bird will continue to live on, this is the end of an era. Time is passing. Lives are passing.

And I find myself wishing, perhaps now more than ever, that I had something – anything – to bring me that same level of solace I once found in a tiny Big Bird doll.

Mis-Lead: Toxic Metal Continues to Find Its Way into Children's Products

Nothing says “sweet dreams” quite like a lead-laced sleeping bag.

One of the most upsetting things for me, as a first-time parent, was realizing my daughter’s first-ever sippy/straw cup contained lead paint. I’d spent HOURS looking for the perfect cup — one that stored her drink in glass (because of all the gross chemicals that leach into water from plastic); had a silicone straw (for the same reason); and yet was encased to prevent breaking if thrown or dropped. So when I discovered a cup from a “green” company that ticked all of those boxes, I felt like I’d hiked to the top of a parenting Everest. 

That bubble burst in a (not-so) glorious fashion a few months later when a friend sent me an article that confirmed the unthinkable: the demarcations on the glass portion of said sippy cup were done with lead paint. And the silicone straw? It contained cadmium. 

I was livid. Frustrated. Upset. How was this even possible? Isn’t lead paint — particularly for items INFANTS will come into contact with — banned? Would there be a recall? Was the company — which sold and continues to sell many of its products at Whole Foods — going to issue a massive apology, be completely ashamed, and explain away the matter as a manufacturing error? 

The answers astounded me: there would be no recall. Having lead paint on a surface infants and toddlers drink from is somehow still legal (there are certain restrictions, but they’re a joke, particularly when you consider the amount of lead that is safe for babies and toddlers is ZERO). 

Worse yet, even though the company (Green Sprouts) offered to replace the glasses with “paint free” ones for free, there was no real apology (and certainly not a recall). Rather, they explained it away as “within legal limits.” And I say again: NO AMOUNT OF LEAD IS “SAFE” FOR ANYONE, LEAST OF ALL SMALL CHILDREN. Even small amounts of lead exposure, particularly for infants and toddlers, can cause intellectual disabilities, brain damage, kidney failure and possibly death. 

Lead paint should have gone the way of dinosaurs, blast into extinction by the meteor of public awareness. But instead: it persists — presumably because it’s dirt cheap — and even companies with “green” in their name and mission continue to use it with reckless abandon.

Skip ahead two years. I’m at Walmart looking for a camping chair for my daughter when I stumble upon this adorable rocket ship sleeping bag from Ozark Trail (Walmart’s own line of outdoor gear). It feels soft, like cotton, and since my daughter is currently obsessed with all things pertaining to space, it seemed like the perfect purchase. I was trying to figure out what the lining was made out of when I instead found a tag indicating the sleeping bag (for some inexplicable reason) contains lead and “can be harmful if chewed.”

All of the anger I felt two years ago came flooding back. Like many three-year olds, my daughter still puts WAAAYYY too many things in her mouth, and the odds of her eventually suckling on her sleeping bag are pretty high. So while on one hand I’m grateful they at least had the wherewithal/legal foresight to mark the bag with this disclaimer — our sippy cup manufacturer gave no such notice — I’m still beyond upset that lead is still widely used in consumer goods, particularly those made for children. 

This. Is. Not. O. K. 

So how do we make it stop? We could storm the legal bodies that set the limits (namely the CPSC, in the case of consumer goods), but no one really seems to listen to anyone unless money is exchanging hands. And let’s be honest: whether out of necessity or simply the desire to save, the vast majority of consumers are more likely to roll the dice on a cheaper product, rather than invest in a more expensive item that has been rigorously tested and certified to not contain harmful materials. Such products do exist in some consumer categories, but they are cost-prohibitive for many families (infuriating when you consider lead shouldn’t be allowed in any products regardless of price tag, and no companies should allow it under the flag of “well, it meets [lackluster] government regulations”) .

So what is a consumer to do?

For starters, look closely at product labels. If it has a “contains lead” warning, don’t buy it. If it includes a warning about how it doesn’t meet safety requirements for the state of California — the state with the strictest regulations — don’t buy it. Companies make merchandising decisions based on sales. If we keep buying it, they’ll keep making it. If we don’t buy it, they’ll eventually stop. It’s economics 101.

And if you buy something with no such warning label that is later determined to contain anything unsafe: raise a stink. Call them. Write them. Demand they do better, and stop buying them until they do. 

Because contrary to many idioms, “love” isn’t the universal language — money is. And until we start speaking with our wallets, products containing lead and other harmful materials will continue to find their onto store shelves.