I Grew Up With the Shame of Food Insecurity. Decades Later, I Still Obsess Over What I Eat

I remember watching my mother stand at the supermarket register, anxiously tugging at her shaggy dark blonde hair, repeatedly tucking it behind an ear. Her green eyes, amplified by thick glasses with rose-tinted plastic frames, scanned the running total. She’d hold an envelope open with one hand and whip out coupons like a blackjack dealer, placing them on each corresponding item to make sure the cashier scanned them together.

She knew the total before we got to the checkout. She used a ballpoint pen to calculate it on a palm-size notepad while she shopped. To be safe, though, she always loaded the conveyor belt with the most essential food items first—sandwich fixings, eggs, milk, log-shaped rolls of fatty ground beef, canned tuna, canned and frozen vegetables, soups, and pasta. If budget allowed, she’d add chicken, fresh fruit, snacks, or a bag of chips last.

My mom was a full-time airline reservation agent and my dad ran a small janitorial franchise in a suburb of Denver, but their bank account always teetered near zero. Before instant bank transactions, my mom knew she could write a check Friday evening to buy groceries for the whole week. She incurred overdraft fees, but three meals materialized every day. She made the cheapest ingredients stretch, carefully portioned to make sure we ate. But we were all too aware that money was in short supply.

To read more about Kimi Ceridon's article, please click here.