Waist-Deep Dive: Food Was Weird in the 60s

This is our first "Waist-Deep Dive," where we explore a topic that was found to be fascinating during the research of the main story (in this case, the Diet Culture Decoded episode), but did not quite fit there in it's entirety. So consider the Waist-Deep Dive as more of a companion piece to the original.

This time, we are going to step into the bizarre world of 1960s American food culture, where space-age dreams met suburban reality. This entertaining and eye-opening episode explores how Tang became an astronaut's companion, cereals turned into sugar delivery systems, and cocktails became suburban survival tools. From the chalky depths of Metrecal to the artificial heights of Tab, discover how these foods and drinks shaped (and were shaped by) an era of unprecedented change, paranoia, and progress. Join us for a witty, insightful journey through the most fascinating food decade in American history.

Transcript

Welcome, folks, to our very first "Waste-Deep Dive" We are going to wade into the murky waters of 1960s nutritional nightmares. Think of it as the director’s cut of dietary disasters-the deleted scenes too bizarre for the main episode.

 Today, we’re hopping into a DeLorean and cranking the dial back to the 1960s—a decade where America is riding high on victory, paranoia and enough amphetamines to boost a rocket ship to mars. What a perfect segue. 

Picture this: It’s breakfast time, and what better way to start your day than with a tall glass of Tang, the powdered orange drink that NASA claimed was good enough for astronauts. 

Forget the vitamin C from fresh fruit—Tang had artificial vitamins and the power of *space propaganda*. Give your kid enough of it, and he’d have enough energy not only to fight the red menace, but to achieve low orbit—though more likely he'd end up launching himself off the couch, fueled by sugar and delusions of grandeur. 

And while the inevitable crash may not have been mourned as a national tragedy, it would most certainly have Mom reaching for a bit more pharmaceutical magic to ease the pain. 

But tang was just the appetizer in this buffet of questionable choices, let’s talk about cereals. The 1960s were also the golden age of breakfast cereals. 

Not the relatively healthy, oat-filled kinds, mind you, but the ones loaded with more sugar than a Willy-Wonka-esque fever dream. 

Breakfast became less about 'the most important meal of the day' and more like a gateway ritual to a life of metabolic ruin. By the time little Timmy was twelve, he had a cereal habit so deep it was only a matter of time before he graduated to powdered sugar straight from the pantry. 

By 1969, an estimated 98% of American households had at least one box of sugary cereal in their pantry. Why wouldn’t they? Tony the Tiger promised greatness, and how can I deny my children advice from a bipedal, talking cartoon cat? 

Next you're going to say that most of my big life decisions in the 80s shouldn't have been influenced by the sage advice of Chester the Cheetah and MC Skat Kat. Yeah, okay! They were the only ones I could rely on as a child and I’m not about to blame them for the fact that my pancreas is getting by about as well as a 2003 Pontiac Aztek driving on bald spares – thanks for the abandonment issues, Mom! 

But it wasn't just breakfast that was strange. Let's take a peek at dinner—well first, cocktail hour. Because in the 1960s, nothing said "balanced diet" quite like a good old-fashioned cocktail to take the edge off before dinner. 

The martini wasn't just a drink, it was Mom's lifeline—a liquid defense shield against the crushing banality of suburban life. Meanwhile, Dad's highball was less about relaxing and more about numbing the creeping existential dread that came with wondering if their white picket-fence dream was just a cleverly disguised cage. 

If you weren't sipping on something that came with its own miniature umbrella, were you really living? It’s estimated that alcohol consumption in America increased by over 25% from the mid-1950s to the late 1960s, with cocktail culture fueling that rise. 

And dinner? Dinner was a test of fortitude—if the aspic didn’t make you lose the will to live, the Tuna and Jell-O Pie would comfortably finish the job. Culinary magazines praised these congealed nightmares as quick and efficient, but really, they were a desperate attempt to turn Cold War-era canned rations into something *technically edible* while ensuring American pride in spreading democracy via war crimes in southeast asia. 

But let’s not stop at dinner—desserts had their own peculiar twist too. Remember Cool Whip? Cool Whip was less a topping and more like a fluffy altar upon which 1960s desserts worshipped the gods of convenience and processed chemicals. 

Housewives scooped it out like they were performing some kind of twisted communion, sacrificing real cream in a futile ritual of time-saving sophistication. But for some, even Cool Whip wasn’t enough—enter the 'Pink Lady.' This abomination combined gin, grenadine, and an egg white, shaken into a frothy nightmare that housewives would sip in an attempt to stay 'ladylike' while coping with the chaos of suburban life. 

It was both dainty and desperate, a fragile mask hiding the primal scream of a woman trying to stay composed while balancing on the knife edge of the American Dream. 

And of course, we can’t talk about the 1960s without mentioning diet fads like Metrecal— the original meal replacement shake that made SlimFast look like an opulent meal from a 3-star michellin-rated restaurant. 

By 1961, this chalky concoction was helping Mead Johnson rake in $9.6 million in profits, proving that Americans would drink anything if you promised them thinness. Each serving delivered a measly 225 calories of what Time magazine called 'vile-tasting' sludge in exciting flavors like vanilla, chocolate, or butterscotch – though I imagine they tasted remarkably similar to licking a blackboards chalk tray or worse, you drank the butterscotch. 

The marketing was brilliant in its psychological warfare: The ads proclaimed quote 'Face it, you've got to stop eating,' end-quote.  This might be the only form of abstinence education worse than what we already have available – one leaves you unimaginably frustrated, while the other leaves you dead. 

That said, for those who wish to live and are truly committed (or possibly in need of commitment), Metrecal recommended four servings a day and 'no other food.' That's 900 calories of liquified dust and wood shavings – perfect for those wanting to experience the joy of malnutrition while maintaining social acceptability. Even the elite got in on this masochistic trend. The king of Greece ordered it by the case, proving that simply being born into royalty doesn’t bestow good sense, taste, or class; merely money, power, and impunity. 

Bergdorf Goodman, not missing a beat, released a special purse flask for 'every secret Metrecal drinker' – because nothing says 'I've got my life together' quite like sneaking sips of dietary punishment from a designer handbag. Add a Gucci pill box of laxatives and a Dupont cigarette case and you’ve got yourself the socialite’s survival kit. 

And if you thought that was depressing, Trader Vic's created a special 325-calorie 'lunch' cocktail: rum and nutmeg mixed with Metrecal. Because if you're going to drink your meals, you might as well get your buzz on to help you forget what you're doing to yourself. 

By 1963, there were over 700 meal replacement products on the market, all promising the same thing: salvation through starvation. It was like a mass hysteria of self-denial, with everyone desperately trying to drink their way to social acceptance, one chalky shake at a time." 

And then, of course, there were the diet sodas (the favorite of all my personal addictions). 

Tab, anyone? Introduced in 1963, it quickly became the drink of choice for dieters everywhere. Tab was supposed to give you all the satisfaction of a soda without the calories. It came with saccharin, an artificial sweetener known for the chemical aftertaste it left behind and cyclamate, which was banned for causing cancer in lab mice (thought they were the thinnest and most beautiful mice in the oncology ward). 

By 1965, Americans were consuming over 12 million cases of Tab annually, proving that the taste of a failed chemistry experiment was a small price to pay for the promise of svelte sophistication, and the occasional cancerous mass.

So let’s get real here. The 1960s were all about appearances, psychotropic substances for coping, and rooting out the commies. About giving the impression that you had it all together, even if that meant using gelatin as a crutch and diet pills to stay awake. 

It’s easy to mock the aspics and Pink Ladies of the past, but maybe we shouldn’t be too quick to judge. After all, we’re still chasing those miracle fixes; we’ve traded Tang for Kombucha, Tab for La Croix, and Metrecal for Soylent. We’re still sipping our way through fad diets and tossing money at anything that promises effortless perfection. The more things change, the more they stay the same.