Growing up, I ate at least one bowl of cereal every single day. Life Cereal was my favorite, though we also always had a few other boxes in the pantry: some version of Chex, Special K, Puffins (original flavor — the peanut butter and cinnamon flavors, I’ve always thought, have a strange texture), bite-sized Shredded Wheat (plain), Crispix. We weren’t allowed “sugary” cereal; Life was the sweetest type we had in the house. While my parents ate Cream of Wheat or eggs, I shoveled bowl after bowl of the cold, crunchy stuff into my mouth before shooting out the door to school. 

But when I went to college, and gradually became an adult with a tepid concern for my health, I stopped eating it. Empty calories, I thought. Not good for you. Turns out, I was merely part of a larger trend: In the United States, consumption of cold cereal peaked in the ‘90s, and has steadily declined since, in large part due to health concerns about the product. 

Until 2020.

Cereal purchases surged for much of last year before finally dipping at its end, making 2020 a reversal, in many ways, of the trends that led to cereal’s decline in the past two decades. Suddenly, all the people who dropped their morning rush to the office now have the time — and the apparent disinterest in a “healthy” breakfast — to sit down in the morning with a bowl of cereal, just like they did as kids. Can it last?

Cold cereal in the United States has a strange, fascinating history, studded with religious mania, mind control, food shot from guns, and the commercial realization that children have immense market power. But this history may be coming to an end. Fewer Americans are eating cereal every year, despite some of them offering a substantial amount of fiber, a critical nutrient in which 95 percent of Americans are deficient. Decades of marketing that focused on children, however, has convinced millions of Americans that cereal is merely a sugary treat, not a healthy breakfast option; it’s something to grow out of, not aspire to. It didn’t have to be this way. 

The origin story of the breakfast behemoth, is actually a very adult one. The first cold cereal was introduced in 1863, when a religious conservative vegetarian and health spa (then called a “sanitarium”) proprietor named James Caleb Jackson created what he called “granula” made out of graham flour. The cereal was so hard it needed to be soaked overnight. John Harvey Kellogg, another religious vegetarian (specifically, a Seventh Day Adventist) and sanitarium owner, similarly introduced his own version of “granula,” which he named “granola” when Jackson threatened to sue. Unfortunately for Jackson, who’s been lost to mainstream history, it was granola — and Kellogg — that stuck. 

Kellogg’s divine inspiration for granola derived from his concern about proper bowel movements and, most famously, his preoccupation with masturbation, which he believed caused a whole litany of health problems, including epilepsy, mood swings, and acne, among other ailments. The solution, he thought, was a well-balanced diet, devoid of heavy spices, flavors, and sugar; so, he developed granola and, with the help of his less religious brother, cornflakes. His brother Will, not being obsessed with masturbation and dietary purity, was convinced that adding sugar to their recipe would make it more popular. Though John disagreed, Will won the fight, wrenching the company from John and ultimately popularizing the lightly sweet cornflakes we’re familiar with today. 

In the 1910s, the Quaker Oat Company touted their Puffed Wheat and Puffed Rice inventions as food science breakthroughs and “the eighth wonder of the world.” They were also, according to the company, the first “food shot from guns,” as the rice and wheat grains were puffed in a cannon-like cylinder that was heated from the outside. 

Other forms of cereal would soon follow. The Ralston Purina company developed an early version of Wheat Chex for followers of Ralstonism, a strict — and racist — religious sect that believed in mind control. But it was Cheerios, originally called Cheeri-Oats, that was born at the exactly right time: 1941, right before America entered World War Two. As the war ended, men returned to America from overseas, while women, after spending several years in the workplace, were sent back to the kitchen. Cereal provided a way for tired, frustrated housewives to quickly and wholesomely feed their rapidly growing families before the kids headed to school and their husbands to work, and so cereal, which had been merely one of many breakfast options in the decades prior, soon became dominant.

“Families with children were becoming more time pressured. Therefore, there was a consumer need for a more convenient breakfast option that can be more quickly prepared than the traditional heartier eggs, bacon, et cetera breakfast,” says Jon Quinn, the Director for the Center of Brand Leadership at the Indiana University Kelley School of Business. “The rise of mass media advertising, like radio and television, drove demand” as well, he says.

It was around this time that Tony the Tiger would emerge as a mascot that directly targeted children with sugary Frosted Flakes. With Tony, this new form of youth advertising, which would compel children to request that their mothers buy them specific brands of sweet cereal, would catapult cereal into millions of American pantries. Breakfast cereal, which had originally been developed as a nutritious food that people ate at health spas, was transformed into the almost dessert-like product most of us think of today.

This strategy worked — until recently. In the 2000s, Americans were quickly latching on to the idea that low sugar, low carb diets were the secret to good health — or, at least, weight loss. This meant that the effort of decades of marketing, which had focused on getting kids hooked on sugary cereals, was backfiring: Raised on Frosted Flakes, Fruit Loops, and Cocoa Puffs, many Americans thought of cereal as sugary junk food, not as the nutritious, fiber-rich food its inventors had intended. “Look at millennials: they want health, nutrition, wellness,” says Diane Badame, an associate professor of clinical marketing at the University of Southern California Marshall School of Business. “They want fresh fruit. They want things that have higher levels of protein.” Despite efforts by some cereal companies in recent years to tout their whole grain, protein-rich options, many Americans aren’t buying it. When they think of cold cereal, they don’t think about high-fiber Shredded Wheat, which could be just as filling as an egg sandwich. They think about (and buy) Honey Nut Cheerios, Cinnamon Toast Crunch, and other cereals designed to appeal to kids, according to a December 2020 report from global market research firm Euromonitor.

Cereal’s perceived status as a nutrient-devoid sugar bomb, however, was only one of many nails in the coffin for the industry. Just as Americans had begun eating more cereal as they had more children in the post-WWII baby boom, and then again in the economically robust ‘80s; once the birth rate went down, cereal consumption also saw a drop. Eighteen percent of Americans don’t even eat breakfast, and those of us who do will often grab something on-the-go, such as a protein bar or fast food. Cereal isn’t very portable, which has contributed to its diminishing popularity: You can’t exactly eat a bowl of cereal as you drive to work. “As Americans spent a greater portion of their time working and commuting for work, a growing portion of them wanted something they can eat when they’re on-the-go — if they ate anything for breakfast at all,” Quinn says. “It is somewhat ironic that the trend that led to the category’s initial growth also contributed to its decline.”

2020 changed all that. For a short time, at least. 

Last year, there was a 20.9% surge in hot and cold cereal, according to Badame. Part of the reason, she says, is that people aren’t relying on the drive-thru breakfasts they’re used to eating on their harried commutes to their jobs. “People are staying home,” she says. “They’re not doing food service. They’re not going to McDonald’s getting a Big Mac or a McMuffin on the way to work.”

Americans have more time to sit down and eat breakfast, but we’re also stressed out, and don’t necessarily want to cook. Instead, we want something easy that still feels like comfort food, which many people consider cereal to be. 

“When confronted with a threat to our lifestyle and what we hold dear, our normal reaction is to retreat into what gives us comfort and reminds of a simpler time and/or of our childhood,” says Quinn. “Cereal fits this psychological need perfectly. Any sort of health concerns take a backseat until the threat is mitigated or removed.”

Those threats, though, are being mitigated and removed, if gradually. As 2020 progressed, the economy slowly opened up, and people either returned to work or at least acclimated emotionally to their new reality; people stopped buying cereal in large quantities, according to Quinn. Some of cereal’s market “stickiness” will remain if people continue to work from home, he says. But the need for nostalgia and comfort has largely faded, which explains some of that end of 2020 dip. This decline is likely to continue further, with Euromonitor predicting that U.S. sales of cold cereal will drop more than eleven percent by 2025.

It’s unfortunate for cereal’s market longevity that the industry focused on its sweet and junky products. Kids eventually become adults, and usually move past the things they’d treasured when they were young (except in times of crisis and stress, as 2020 shows). Advertising to an audience that will age- out limits the reach of that product, particularly when the now-adults aren’t having kids at the same rate their parents did.

People also, quite simply, aren’t consuming ads in the same way they used to. Television, which played a crucial role in marketing cereal to a young audience, has pivoted to streaming, where there are often far fewer ads. People under 40 “are not watching TV anymore. They’re going to Netflix, they’re streaming. And so they’re not seeing the commercials that we used to see,” says Badame. Millennials and kids are either streaming or online; if cereal marketers want to reach these young audiences, says Badame, “they’ve got to promote their products online. Because that’s where everybody is.” Influencer partnerships, including with micro-influencers, could be a great start, she says.

We could also benefit our health if we ate more cereal — certain cereals, anyway.

Most adult Americans still struggle to eat a balanced diet, which is understandable: Worked to the bone, we’re tired when we get home from the office or a long shift (or two), and shopping for and cooking a delicious, healthy meal takes energy many people have already spent, to say nothing of having the time to develop cooking skills. Cereal could be an answer to this cooking fatigue, but it will take some reprogramming of how we think about food to really lean into it. 

But, it might be possible. I love to cook, but I have a digestive disorder that makes me sensitive to a lot of healthy, fibrous fruits and veggies (I still eat and delight in them, but they sometimes give me stomach aches). Only once I came back around to cereal did I realize I could easily and gently reintroduce regular fiber (pun not intended) into my diet. Now, I eat extremely fiber-rich Shredded Wheat, Wheat Chex, and Puffins several times a week; I’m cheaply and easily tackling the issue of getting enough fiber in my diet, something 95% of Americans could also stand to do more of.
Turns out, the original Kellogg was right about at least one thing: Cereal, at least some cereal, is good for your gut. Though the 200-year-old invention will almost certainly never disappear, the gains of 2020 are projected to slow and slide back into the downward spiral the industry had experienced over the past decade. This isn’t the worst thing, since few people should eat quite as much Chocolate Cheerios and Lucky Charms as everyone did in the ‘90s. But I’ll be sorry to see the industry go, especially if my beloved bite-sized Shredded Wheat continues to get harder to find.

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Shawna Upton was raised on Dunkin’. 

“I grew up right outside Boston, and when I tell you they were everywhere — there are two on the same street in my hometown. So it was just what every parent, teacher, et cetera had in their hand every morning,” Upton, a digital director at an advocacy group, says. “The fun thing to do when we were kids was to walk to Dunkin’ for a Coolatta and a donut.” 

In California, where I lived until I was 27, Dunkin’ is not really a thing. Contrary to Upton’s Boston suburb, the town where I grew up, Chico (population 94,529), does not even have a Dunkin’. This seems inconceivable if you’re from the Northeast. In New York City, where I live now, I’d say a good 60 percent of the born-and-bred New Englanders I know have a Dunkin’ cup surgically attached to their hands (at least from 8am to noon). It isn’t just that Dunkin’ is part of their coffee routine, though, it’s part of their identity.

The Dunkin’ fandom is big, enthusiastic, and totally unique. The only maybe comparable brand-specific food fandom is that surrounding Diet Coke — but it still doesn’t feel quite the same. Not even the West Coast’s beloved In-N-Out fandom comes close; West and East Coasters love to lob insults at each other over our preferred ground beef patties, but In-N-Out fans nevertheless do not typically consider the brand an extension of themselves. But Upton confirms that she considers her love of Dunkin’ “a personality trait,” which wasn’t an unusual answer among the Dunkin’ regulars I interviewed for this piece.

Dunkin’ love has deep intergenerational roots that merge with its approachable, all-are-welcome branding to create a company with a firm foothold in the New England identity. This fandom — ranging from grandparents whose cup of Dunkin’ was part of their morning routine on the way to their factory shift, to young, Gen-Z influencers like Charli D’Amelio whose trips to Dunkin’ are the point of even having a morning routine — is similarly approachable, enthusiastic, oftentimes fun, and notably unaggressive. Rarely do they disparage Dunkin’ competitors, though they’re used to other coffee drinkers belittling Dunkin’.

Originally called Open Kettle, Dunkin’ was founded in 1948 in Quincy, Massachusetts by William Rosenberg, the son of German-Jewish immigrants who owned a local grocery store. In 1950, the company was renamed Dunkin’ Donuts, and rebranded once again to Dunkin’ in 2019. While location and history — and a great product — are key aspects of Dunkin’s success, it’s really its fans that make the company special.

Nicole Carpenter, a reporter who lives in Boston but grew up in Connecticut, says she got her love of Dunkin’ in part from her dad. “My dad literally always had a Dunkin’ coffee. It was just ubiquitous. He would go out even on Christmas and in blizzards to get it,” she says. “I imagine it’s similar for other folks? It’s just everywhere, and always has been.” 

Josh Gondelman, a New York-based comedian who grew up in the Boston suburbs, says he also grew up with a Dunkin’-loving dad. “My memory is that sometimes he’d go on his way to work because he worked in construction and they were open early when he was up,” he says. “There are, like, five in my pretty small hometown. There always seemed to be a bunch of old guys hanging out at them, especially early in the day.”

If a lot of the stories of Dunkin’ fans seem similarly viewed through an everyman lens, that isn’t a coincidence. Though Dunkin’ is ubiquitous up and down the Eastern Seaboard, the specific spots where the company decides to plop down a location is more strategic than it might seem. Nailya Ordabayeva, an associate professor of marketing at Boston College, says the particular neighborhoods Dunkin’ focuses on are key to its success. “Dunkin’ is a very much average American brand that tries to target and attract middle class, average Americans — hard-working, working class Americans. And their locations reflect that,” she says. “If you look at the locations of Dunkin’, they’re much more likely to be located in less urban areas — a little more spread out across the geography in a certain state. Whereas Starbucks is much more likely to be located in the heart of the city, where they’re more likely to get more affluent consumers.”

Dunkin’ is also cheap for what you get, which makes the brand even easier for people to love. A 2018 study found that perceived value — or, how much customers think they’re getting in return for what they’re paying — is the number one most important factor that contributes to its customers’ happiness and, by extension, to the company’s success. The cost factor came up again and again in my interviews with business experts and regular Dunkin’ fans alike. 

Brighton, Massachusetts-based Laura Eastaugh grew up a short walk away from the second-ever Dunkin’. She went viral in a video she appeared in last year, in which she repped Dunkin’ pride as she voted for Joe Biden at Fenway Park. “Dunkies is the drink of the working class. No fuss,” she tells me. “Not everybody can afford a $7 iced coffee.”

The data backs this up. According to Nielsen, Starbucks consumers have a median household income of $72,413, while Dunkin’ drinkers typically make about $63,825. This difference is part of its appeal: while Starbucks has a high-brow vibe that explicitly targets affluent customers, Dunkin’ fans often pride themselves on being part of a working class community with straightforward needs and unfussy taste. “The brand associations with Dunkin’ align really well with the values of the Puritan work ethic which is still prevalent in a lot of New England,” says Elizabeth Miller, a professor of marketing at University of Massachusetts Amherst’s Isenberg School of Business. “The idea of no frills, convenience, and helping Americans get to work seems to be consistent with the values of hard work, discipline, and frugality.”

A 2018 study conducted at Boston College (not peer-reviewed) found that this even extends to the language used by Dunkin’ and Starbucks employees. Starbucks branding and employee lingo explicitly uses coffee-related jargon that lends the company an exclusive air; in contrast, Dunkin’ employees kept it simple, using casual, single word greetings to welcome guests, with unassuming, straightforward menu item names. 

Susan Fournier, the dean of Boston University’s Questrom School of Business, says Dunkin’ — which she says is sometimes called “DD” by loyalists — thrives in part because of its underdog brand image. “DD is simpler, more authentic than uppity Starbucks with its own lingo about coffee and its detailed preparation processes and sizes that have to be ordered in Italian,” she says. “DD has pink and orange colors! Rather mundane interiors to the stores. It is not pretentious and this authenticity is perfect for those who are not pretentious.”

Even the names of the different companies reflect this, notes the study, pointing out that Starbucks comes from Herman Melville’s novel Moby Dick; the founders wanted a name that began with an “st” sound, as they’d heard advice that it sounds “powerful.” In contrast, Dunkin’ (originally “Dunkin’ Donuts”) drops the -ing, resulting in a more colloquial, everyday vibe from the get-go.

Dunkin’ “has that authentic connection with New England. And it’s capitalized upon that, especially over the last 10 or so years,” says Danielle Brick, an assistant professor of marketing at the University of New Hampshire. The company has facilitated partnerships with local sports teams and players, most recently with the New England Patriots; when legendary Red Sox player David Ortiz retired in 2016, Dunkin’ commissioned a gigantic portrait of him made entirely out of donuts. But the brand has also done a good job of connecting with younger fans, Brick says. “They also have done a good job most recently in the fall partnering with Charli D’Amelio, who is from Connecticut,” she says. Whereas in the past the company may have focused on more traditional partnerships like the sports teams, Brick says they’re looking to branch out and appeal to younger consumers with the Charli connection. 

Zachariah Porter is a TikTok influencer and huge Dunkin’ fan, who has collaborated with the brand in the past. He says many of his viral TikTok videos feature his love of Dunkin’. “I think a lot of their vocal adoration online comes from the fact that they are a huge brand that actually interacts with their people,” he says. “They are finding out what people like and what they want to try from their community.” In one of my favorite of his TikToks, Porter says: “The Dunkin’ drama is unbelievable. Look at this guy, tryna enter the line from that side of the street. Get behind, brother, we all want our caffeine!”

The biggest Dunkin’ influencer, however, is a (probably) accidental one: Ben Affleck. In his recent piece about the Affleck Renaissance in The Ringer, Gondelman notes that it was not his former relationship with the actress Ana de Armas (RIP BenAna) that has brought Affleck back to Good Will Hunting-level stardom so much as his complete and utter commitment to getting his Dunkin’ every day — even during a pandemic. “Dunkin’ as a brand harkens back to the Red Sox of the late 20th century: a scrappy, much-maligned underdog that is actually worth millions and millions of dollars. In other words: Ben Affleck,” writes Gondelman. “The alignment between his persona and the Dunkin’ brand is almost cosmic, and seeing them merge feels like witnessing a man at peace with himself.”

It takes a bit of cognitive dissonance to so closely align a gigantic brand with 12,871 locations and $287.4 million in revenue (as of 2019) with the working class. But Dunkin’ retains an uncomplicated, sincere brand and product that has resonated with its fans — not merely its drinkers, but its fans — for decades. And don’t get it twisted: I’m not a biased Dunkin’ fan. Again, I grew up on the West Coast, where Dunkin’ was basically just another Krispy Kreme in the local imagination. 

But in an era of overly-considered millennial interiors, Instagram filters and FaceTune, personal brands, and outright political lies, authenticity is at a premium. Desperately searched for, rarely found, perhaps the authentic experience we were looking for was right in our backyard, at Dunkin’. Or, at least, an authentic-feeling experience. These days, that’s good enough for me. 

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