I did not grow up in a household of health nuts. My parents did not try to convince me of the virtues of carob, when the only thing I truly longed for was a sumptuous, rich bit of chocolate. I was not plied with Kefir, nor was I given sandwiches of sprouts and soy cheese on multi-grain bread. But I did eat fairly well. My lunches, packed by my mother for entirely too long, well into high school, I’m ashamed to say, always contained two fruits and a vegetable, or vice versa. Dinners were always well-balanced, perhaps this is how I have achieved the propensity for “proper” meal planning. But every once in awhile, I was allowed a glorious treat, a sugar cereal at the grocery store.

I have always eaten breakfast. Whether it be a piece of fruit, some toast, or Eggs Benedict (which it never actually would be, I’m not fond of my entree being hidden by globulous mayonnaise-like sauces), I need to have a bit of something in the morning. When I was younger, juice replaced my standard cup of coffee, and the usual weekday breakfast was a bowl of cereal. Usually it was Rice Crispies, raisin bran, or a bowl of Cheerios, but from time to time, while out doing the week’s grocery shopping with my mom, I was given the treat of selecting any cereal I would like. There I would stand, carefully trying to choose the ideal cereal, the perfect balance of sugary sweetness, and empty calories. Cartoon characters did nothing for me, I didn’t like chocolate cereals, I didn’t appreciate their ability to turn my milk a cocoa richness. I remember many a visit to the grocery store, my mother coaxing me from the cereal aisle, proclaiming it was not such a dire decision to make, so inevitably I would fall back on an old stand-by– Lucky Charms.

I loved the oaty, bland taste of the cereal, mixed with the stale, almost styrofoam, sweetness of the marshmallows. The cereal would tumble out from the box, a jumble of colors and shapes, and land crisply in my bowl. Gingerly I would splash milk on the pieces, examining each marshmallow as I brought it to my lips. As I got to the end of my breakfast time ritual, the marshmallows now appropriately soggy, I would fish out, and eat the oats separately, leaving a handful of marshmallows alone in the bowl. I would carefully gaze at each fluorescent sweetie before gobbling it up, the very end of a morning time ceremony. There the milk would set in the bowl, tinged an awkward grey-blue, dyed by the once colorful marshmallows.

Feeling slightly nostalgic for the Lucky Charms of my youth, I picked it up at the store, and waited patiently until the following morning to replay this breakfast ritual from my passed. Imagine my surprise when the marshmallows that came cascading from the bright red box, emblazoned with a cartoon leprechaun, were not the marshmallows from my youth. They were a new, hip version of the little puffs of air that I once knew. I shouldn’t be surprised, everything changes, and it has been close to 10 years since I ate Lucky Charms. Gone were the marshmallows that corresponded with the colors of the rainbow; they had been replaced by a vivid green chapeau, adorned with clovers, a mock-up of the entire rainbow, a purple (I say it was mauve) horseshoe, there were stars, streaming across my cereal bowl, pots of gold, and puffy white clouds that displayed rain and wind when milk was added.

But the taste remains the same. The oats are still deliciously tasteless, and the marshmallows had clearly had a makeover, though they still tasted like crisp puffs of sugary air. It took me a day or two, but soon I found myself chasing the last few marshmallows around the bowl with my spoon, the milk that same grey-blue color. I guess it’s true, old habits die hard.