Can You Spot the Imposter?

No, I don’t mean the half-empty jar of tomato sauce
peeking over the top of the Greek yogurt.

Yogurt. It should be a beautiful, delicious food. It is usually white. It can be a little runny, like Stonyfield lowfat yogurt usually is, or thick, like Greek yogurt, or somewhere in between, like the lovely Jersey milk whole-milk yogurt from Butterworks Farm. I have made plenty of yogurt myself, in fact, with varying tang and texture.
But never have I come across anything that looks like this:

That weirdly tan, custard-like separated stuff is a soy imitation of yogurt, with 6 live cultures!
That’s wonderful, dear folks at Silk, but ugh. Perhaps I shouldn’t have bought the plain unsweetened variety, but that’s how I like my yogurt: plain.
I have no idea what they did to the poor soy stuff to make it wiggle like that. I assume the totally unappealing color is natural.
The fake yogurt, or “soygurt” if you will (yo, soy industry people: I hereby copyright that word, so hands off or I’ll set my lawyer on you) is only slightly improved with the addition of granola and a little bit of plain oatmeal (I like plain oatmeal, OK? And plain yogurt. I’m plain like that).


I have temporarily given up dairy products in an attempt to get the Amazing Baby Who Never Sleeps to sleep. And to stop screaming with gas pains. And to stop waking up 20 minutes after he falls asleep, screaming with gas pains. Though I’m now quite skilled at pedaling and folding him to get the gas out–tooting him like a horn, in fact–we’re both rather tired of the routine.
Either by coincidence or magic, the very day I gave up my beloved morning yogurt he slept like a hibernating bear and didn’t fart all day.
It is possible that in the evenings I forget myself a little and eat a slice of cheese or bowl of ice cream, or that big chunk of lasagna. (What? It was Leftovers Night. Someone had to eat it.) But he’s always been fine at nights. It’s our days that were challenging.
I dearly hope it is just coincidence. I’m trying hard not to focus on how soy creamer isn’t as good as half-and-half, and how I am going to switch to peanut-butter toast because the soygurt is too grim a way to start the day, and how our Friday pizza nights will have to become Friday Szechuan nights (which actually sounds mighty good).
I can see myself living dairy-free for quite some time. As a lactating woman who hates using her breastpump, I really feel for those poor cows. A dietary shift would be a great idea for so many reasons.
Except that a dairy-free lifestyle lacks the sharp salty tang of feta cheese, or the squeak of fresh mozzarella, or the bite of a good aged Parmesan.
And let’s not even contemplate the soygurt problem.

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