Dear Mommy Blogger,
I recently tried your no-bake recipe for Golden Turmeric Energy Balls because I currently have two five-pound bags of turmeric. Yours was the first link that came up when I googled “recipes heavy on turmeric.”
I get why your blog is so popular; it has a strong angle. Even I found something in common with you: family values. In fact, family is the reason I have an excess of turmeric. I was in the spice aisle of Whole Foods with my mother-in-law, who took one look at the prices and began to scream “neo-colonialism” like it was bloody murder. We had to leave. She ended up ordering me wholesale turmeric, but the product had no scent and a stale flavor. I couldn’t use it for my dishes, but I figured it could be perfect for yours.
Your post opened with an essay mapping your personal journey with irritable bowel syndrome, interspersed with ads for turmeric tincture. I got to the recipe after forty-five seconds of scrolling, which is apparently how long you had to get to the toilet back when your IBS was in full swing.
Yes, I read your whole essay. I noticed you are a registered dietician since you mention it in every paragraph. I am all for women claiming their titles, but you already put “RD” in your blog name. I get this is your way of differentiating yourself from the other mommy bloggers, and to your credit, you did try to make yourself relatable. You listed “common mommy problems,” although “the nanny made Baby a snack, but no one fed you!” is not a problem I have. I wish it were, trust me. You also talked about the fatigue that comes with motherhood, and the importance of staying a step ahead of hunger. You came off as progressive. Anti-diet culture. Feminist. You believe that mommies can do it all.
What really sucked me in was your food photography. Despite the iPhone portrait-mode shots, it’s clear you are an artist. You have an eye for detail. You have remodeled your home to perfectly match the color scheme of your blog. You tout a cherry red manicure (that somehow remains unstained by turmeric), and your photos of half-eaten balls showcase the indent of an enviably aligned bite. Your photos reflect the impending inner glow you claim I, too, can have if I regularly eat your balls.
I admit, your post displayed my dream life. Your recipe was much more simple.
It began, as most do, by listing out the ingredients. However, your ingredients came with epithets—golden raisins, fresh ginger, unsalted cashews. You made these items sound exotic and rare, but as someone who cooks with them almost daily, I know they sell in bulk at the local ethnic grocery store. Instead of acknowledging that your balls appropriate South Asian culture and encouraging your audience to purchase from Indian-owned businesses, you linked out to your own dropship storefront.
Throughout your recipe, you explained the probiotic benefits of turmeric. Even though you didn’t cite peer-reviewed science articles (as I have been asked to when speaking on Eastern wellness practices), I believed you. You have an RD.
Ultimately, I made your recipe because you wrote, “I wish I could eat turmeric by the spoonful.” I have always wanted to love my culture as much as you seem to.
When it came down to it, your recipe was only two steps—use a food processor and mash back together. Indeed, I was able to successfully use up all my stale turmeric. Unfortunately, it was inedible. I had to trash your balls.