This Is Jeopardy

Every day while growing up, if Jeopardy was airing and my father was home: our TV was tuned to precisely that. He’d shout out the answers before most contestants, solidifying his place in my mind as a human encyclopedia. My mom would implore him to try out for the show, and I’ll never understand why he didn’t. But as I grew older and absorbed book after book, it became a contest between us to see who could shout out the question/answer first. 

The tables turned, in a way, and though he continued to have an edge against me, he started asking *me* to audition for the show. Whether he wanted to live vicariously through me or just thought my odds of winning were better (they weren’t), I’m really not sure. 

Little by little a few years ago, he stopped beating contestants to the punch—and then stopped responding altogether—and I became suspicious. But then my mom found all of his crossword puzzle books in the trash, and I knew: something was terribly wrong. As his condition deteriorated, I would sometimes think back on the Jeopardy era of our lives and would break down into panicked, crocodile tears. Gasping for air, shaking, unable to reconcile the present with the past. 

When his disease (Lewy Body) got the best of him, and his time with us was running out, I struggled to find a way to pass the hours and bring him peace. I read some of his favorite poems to him; I played some of his favorite songs; I played soothing sounds of nature and daydreamed about stealing his hospital bed away to the woods and letting him die where he was most at peace. 

At one point between the pacing and the reading, I momentarily turned the TV in his room to Jeopardy, so he could hear his favorite show one final time. And then I turned it off, because I feared it was torture not just for me: but for him, too.

And now I hear Alex Trebek has joined him in death and for some reason the screen is blurry as I type this, and I can’t breathe, and all I can think about is how desperately I would like to return to my parents’ living room and hear Alex read the answers: and my dad shout out the questions just one more time.

"Good Health" Makes a Bad Decision

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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.  

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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.

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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.

In Search of Home

How does one define “home” in the absence of parents? Where do we go for the holidays? For long weekends away? Who do I send pictures of my child to? Who do we FaceTime with every day at Noon? Who will call to ask what time we’ll be “hitting the road” to drive to their place?

And who will insist on a phone call “just to let me know you got back ok” when we return? And who will ever again eagerly await our arrival and welcome us with arms open so wide that just the image of them standing there was my very definition of “home”?

My parents tethered me to the earth, and I feel like I’m going to float away without them.

On Loss

It’s been six months since my father left this plane of existence — and five days since my mother joined him. Grief has compounded grief, and I feel the overwhelming weight of emptiness as I remember the last time they filled a hallway together.