Editor’s note: A version of this essay was published by the author on her Substack, “Midwest Mexican.” We have republished it here, with permission.
Not very long ago, I was rubbing elbows with some of the most critically lauded chefs in the country at the James Beard Awards in Chicago, sipping cocktails and nibbling on hors d’oeuvres beneath the dreamy lights of Union Station. In my line of work as a food journalist, these kinds of scenes aren’t unusual. I’m often among the first to try the menu at a new restaurant. My calendar fills easily with pop-ups and tasting menus, dinners where each dish feels like a tiny performance.
And yet, this fall, I found myself checking the balance on my Bridge Card (Michigan’s version of SNAP, formerly known as food stamps) as the federal government shut down and the USDA warned that benefits for November would not be going out, affecting 1.4 million Michiganders, or about 42 million people nationwide. (That amounts to roughly 1 in 8 people.)
My last deposit came on October 17, and I won’t be waiting to see whether I’ll eat next month. I’m lucky, as a natural-born citizen whose first language is English, with a college degree and no dependents. I work in an intellectually challenging, highly competitive industry. When I was let go by one of the largest food publications in the country earlier this year, I received a healthy severance package that postponed my need for assistance. More recently, my freelance roster has begun to fill out again, so this temporary assistance is set to expire anyway. My only significant expenses now are the credit card bills I racked up from all those fine dining experiences I once called “research.”
Still, these past couple of months I’ve been on SNAP, and that reality feels increasingly common among people like me. What used to be a temporary safety net for the working poor has felt like a life raft for a growing class of professionals caught between the illusion of success and the instability of modern work.
This isn’t my first time depending on food assistance. As a kid, some of my earliest memories are of my family relying on food stamps or the charity of a local food pantry. Those moments left a quiet, but powerful imprint—the awkward mix of gratitude and annoyance that came with bringing home nondescript cans of pork product or peanut butter. Or the red-hot mark of embarrassment on my face from being sent to the corner store with a book of food stamps, not really sure of its value, to hand to the judgmental man behind the counter so I could purchase a carton of milk.
Decades later, a newsroom reorganization in 2017 left me jobless and applying for SNAP for the first time as an adult. Back then, my reaction to scarcity was almost defiant, a kind of trauma response.
I refused to let poverty dictate what pleasure looked like. I’d use my Michigan Bridge Card on melon that I wrapped in prosciutto or triple-cream Brie and honey on toasted sourdough, and I frequently found ways to make my limited freelance funds stretch—like picking up fried chicken wings dusted in lemon pepper from the all-halal “you buy, we fry” joint where they’d cook your paid-for-by-Bridge Card order for one regular dollar. It was my quiet act of rebellion, a way to erase the shame that so often accompanies being on food stamps and to reclaim my dignity, one indulgent meal at a time.
Recently, the experience of once again turning to my Bridge Card feels different. For one, the technology has evolved—I can shop online at Whole Foods, and my benefits are automatically withdrawn at checkout. More importantly, my approach to food has shifted. I cook with intention, not denial. Being a food writer on SNAP has its strange advantages: It nudges me back toward my own cookbook collection, pushing me to experiment, adapt, and create from what I have. I still eat well—maybe even better—but the motivation has changed. What used to be an act of rebellion is now an act of care.
Now that the weather’s turned, my kitchen smells like fall in Michigan: stews layered with leafy greens and a base of chorizo that lasts for days; quesadillas oozing Oaxaca cheese and portobello mushrooms; espagueti verde brightened with roasted poblano chiles; homemade salsas spooned over my daily omelet. Cooking this way isn’t about austerity or indulgence—it’s about creativity. It’s a reminder that good food doesn’t require abundance, just intention.
What frustrates me most these days isn’t just the bureaucracy or the uncertainty, though both wear on me. It’s the way that SNAP, or specifically food, is politicized, particularly those sneering posts online about what others buy with their benefits. I see the comments about “junk food,” “irresponsible spending,” or suggestions that families should be given a box filled with whatever entity deems “healthy” and “balanced.”
SNAP isn’t charity. It’s a social contract, a recognition that people deserve to eat even when the economy, or their employers, fail them. But that contract feels fragile right now. As of Monday, the Trump administration has announced it will partially fund November’s SNAP benefits, according to Yahoo News, after a pair of court rulings ordered the USDA to use billions from its contingency fund. Still, officials haven’t said how much recipients will receive or when those benefits will be available, leaving millions of households in limbo.
I keep thinking about the contradictions in my life: one month I’m dressed for the red carpet outside of the Lyric Opera, networking with chefs and other prominent food writers who are shaping the future of food; the next, I’m deciding how I can dress up a Cup of Noodles. But I’ve stopped feeling embarrassed by that duality. It’s the truth of being a journalist in an industry built on passion, not stability.
There’s nothing shameful about needing help. What’s shameful is a system that treats food as a bargaining chip in political gridlock. Until the government figures it out, I’ll do what I’ve always done—cook, stretch, write, and share. I’ll tell the stories policymakers forget to listen to. And as my temporary benefits wind down, I’ll still be here—stirring a pot on the stove, feeding myself and my community where I can, and reminding anyone who’ll listen that we all deserve a seat at the table.