Why does sushi become a global lunch habit while other brilliant dishes remain local? Why does avocado toast turn into a symbol of wellness, status and climate debate, while activated charcoal disappears almost as quickly as it arrived? Why do some food ideas enter supermarket shelves, restaurant menus and home kitchens, while others stay trapped in the bright, shallow water of the feed? In Nutrition in Transition, food trend researcher Michael Ballarini gives the food world a useful answer: trends do not simply happen because something tastes good. They happen because taste, identity, availability, acceptance and multipliers start moving in the same direction.
That makes the book valuable for a noisy moment. Food culture now produces more signals than anyone can comfortably read. One week brings mushroom coffee, the next brings butter boards, sea moss gels, protein desserts, dirty sodas, gut-health snacks, zero-waste menus, nostalgia drops and a new plant-based protein claim. The media often treats these movements like weather: sudden, colourful, slightly mysterious. Ballarini takes the opposite route. He slows the chaos down. He asks what a food trend is made of, who pushes it, why consumers accept it and when the excitement becomes a real dietary shift.
At its core, Nutrition in Transition is not a cookbook and not a list of fashionable ingredients. It is a framework. Ballarini looks at food as a moving social system, shaped by economic access, cultural memory, media attention, retail power, restaurant practice, health narratives and emotional need. His central message is clean and useful: a trend deserves the name only when it enters both cultural dialogue and personal habit. It is not enough for avocado toast to flood Instagram. It has to change shopping baskets, brunch menus, café margins and the way consumers imagine breakfast.
Nutrition in Transition and the Search for Structure
Food-trend reporting often confuses visibility with importance. A dish can be everywhere online and nowhere in daily life. A product can win headlines and lose repeat purchase. A flavour can burn through restaurant specials without ever becoming part of how people actually eat. Ballarini’s work is strongest when it pushes against that confusion. He treats trend analysis as a discipline, not a mood board.
The book’s official description points to the “dietary profile” as one of its key tools. That phrase matters. It suggests that a culture’s food habits can be mapped, compared and read over time. A dietary profile is not just a nutrition table. It is the shape of collective appetite. It includes what people can access, what they accept, what they reject, what they consider normal, what they see as aspirational and what they use to express who they are.
This is where Ballarini moves beyond the usual “next big thing” logic. He is not only interested in the food itself. He is interested in the conditions around it. A dish may be delicious, but if it does not fit the consumer’s world, it will struggle. A product may be innovative, but if it lacks emotional meaning, it may fail after the trial phase. A tradition may be old, but if new values suddenly support it, it can return as a trend.
That point is essential for restaurants, retailers and brands. Food businesses often ask whether a trend is hot. Ballarini’s framework asks better questions. Is the trend culturally accepted? Is it easy to repeat? Does it fit a value system? Are the right multipliers supporting it? Does it have emotional depth, or only surface visibility? Can it survive outside the channel that made it famous?
These questions turn trend work from guessing into reading. They also make the book especially useful for Wild Bite Club’s own food-trend intelligence lens. The future of food does not belong to the loudest idea. It belongs to the idea with structure.
The Dietary Profile: A Map of Collective Appetite
The dietary profile is the backbone of Ballarini’s method. Imagine a map of what a group of people eats, avoids, desires and discusses. That map is shaped by agriculture, migration, income, religion, media, climate, health advice, retail infrastructure and social status. It changes slowly in some places and violently in others. It can stretch during abundance, harden during crisis and fracture under the pressure of identity politics.
This is why two countries can encounter the same food and respond differently. A flavour that feels exciting in one market may feel confusing in another. A meat alternative can signal progress in one city and artificiality in another. A seaweed snack can read as ordinary in Japan, wellness-coded in California and experimental in parts of Europe. The food is not moving through empty space. It is entering an existing dietary profile.
Ballarini’s strength is that he treats this profile as dynamic. Diets are not fixed traditions. They are negotiated every day through availability and meaning. When sushi entered Western markets, it did not enter a neutral field. It had to pass through suspicion around raw fish, ideas about Japanese culture, changing health narratives, new transport systems, restaurant design, celebrity attention and the gradual normalization of soy sauce, wasabi, seaweed and rice-based lunch formats. That movement changed the profile.
The same logic helps explain avocado. Once exotic in many European and North American contexts, it became a daily food because it found multiple doors into the dietary profile. It was creamy enough to feel indulgent, plant-based enough to feel modern, photogenic enough for social media, fatty enough for low-carb and wellness discourse, and simple enough for home cooks. It did not succeed through one story. It succeeded because many stories made it usable.
A dietary profile also explains resistance. Palm oil is widely consumed because it sits deep inside packaged-food systems, yet many consumers feel little emotional attachment to it. When environmental criticism rises, the ingredient becomes easy to reject symbolically, even when avoiding it completely remains difficult. By contrast, bread, coffee, rice, chocolate or olive oil often have deeper cultural roots. They may be criticized, but they are harder to dislodge because they carry ritual, memory and daily dependence.
This is the central beauty of Ballarini’s model. It understands food as behaviour, not just product. What people eat is never only what they like. It is what fits the life they can afford, the identity they want, the market they enter and the story they are ready to believe.
From Dare to Daily: Sushi as the Perfect Case Study
Sushi is one of the book’s most convincing examples because its rise was never only about taste. For many Western diners, sushi once stood at the edge of discomfort. Raw fish sounded risky. Seaweed looked strange. Wasabi felt aggressive. Chopsticks, counter service and minimalist presentation required a new kind of literacy. Sushi had to become acceptable before it could become ordinary.
Its journey was long. Fermented fish-and-rice preservation methods shaped early forms in Asia before sushi evolved into refined Japanese food culture. Later, migration, trade, postwar politics, refrigeration, aviation, restaurant entrepreneurship and media attention carried sushi outward. In the United States, the California roll helped soften the barrier by bringing avocado and cooked crab into the format. It did not erase Japanese identity, but it translated the form into a new dietary profile.
Ballarini’s insight is that sushi gained both acceptance width and acceptance depth. More people tried it, and many of them started caring about it. They learned the language of nigiri, maki, sashimi and omakase. They formed preferences. They compared quality. They used sushi as a signal of sophistication, health, cosmopolitanism or urban lifestyle. Once that happened, sushi stopped being only a restaurant dish. It became a category.
The multipliers aligned. High-end restaurants gave sushi prestige. Supermarkets gave it reach. Office workers gave it routine. Celebrities and media gave it style. Health narratives gave it permission. Logistics gave it supply. Social life gave it status. No single actor created the trend. The system did.
This is why Ballarini’s sushi example matters far beyond sushi. It shows that a food trend needs more than novelty. It needs bridges. The consumer must know how to approach it, where to buy it, when to eat it, how to talk about it and what it says about them. Without those bridges, even a delicious food can stay niche.
Pho offers a useful comparison. It is loved in many cities and deeply established within Vietnamese food culture and diaspora communities. Yet in many Western markets it has not reached the same universal lunchtime entrenchment as sushi. That does not make pho less valuable or less delicious. It shows that trend growth depends on infrastructure and multiplication. Sushi found more coordinated support across restaurants, retail, media, delivery, health messaging and social signalling. Pho’s growth has been strong, but its multipliers have not operated with the same breadth.
The sushi story also carries a warning. Global success brings costs. Convenience sushi depends on seafood supply chains, packaging, cold transport and standardization. As sushi becomes fast food, the craft and ecology behind it can become less visible. This is where Ballarini’s framework remains useful. A trend does not stop being analyzable once it succeeds. Its depth, ethics and environmental structure still need to be read.
Acceptance Width and Acceptance Depth
Ballarini’s acceptance model is one of the most practical parts of Nutrition in Transition. It gives food professionals a simple grid for separating real movement from noise.
Acceptance width means how many people consume a food, ingredient or dietary concept. Acceptance depth means how strongly those consumers care about it. Width counts reach. Depth measures commitment. A food with high width and low depth may be everywhere but emotionally weak. A food with low width and high depth may be small but powerful. A true trend usually needs both, or at least a pathway from one to the other.
This distinction cuts through a lot of bad trend talk. Activated charcoal had visibility. It looked striking in ice cream, lemonade, burger buns and wellness drinks. It was made for Instagram’s monochrome drama. But it had limited acceptance depth. Most consumers did not build identity, cooking habits or daily rituals around it. Once health questions and novelty fatigue appeared, the trend lost force. It had been seen more than it had been adopted.
Palm oil offers another case. It has enormous acceptance width because it appears in many processed foods, cosmetics and supply chains. Yet most consumers do not identify with palm oil. They do not defend it as part of personal taste. They do not gather around it as a lifestyle. So when environmental controversies became more visible, palm oil could quickly become a negative symbol. High width did not protect it because depth was weak.
Offal sits on the other side. Organ meats have often had low width in modern Western consumer culture. Many diners associate them with poverty, waste, strong flavour or old-fashioned cooking. Yet in chef circles, nose-to-tail restaurants and sustainability-minded food communities, offal can have high depth. People who believe in it often believe strongly. They link it to waste reduction, animal respect, culinary skill and cultural heritage. That depth can pull a stigmatized food toward wider acceptance, especially when the right chefs, writers and restaurants support it.
The model also explains why some trends remain stable after the first hype cycle. Oat milk did not only become a social-media favourite. It solved problems. It worked in coffee. It foamed. It tasted familiar enough. It gave lactose-intolerant consumers, vegans and climate-conscious drinkers a usable alternative. Baristas helped normalize it. Cafés gave it daily repetition. Retailers gave it shelf space. The category moved from curiosity into habit.
This is the value of Ballarini’s two-axis thinking. It keeps trend scouts from overreacting to volume. A lot of people may try something once. That is not the same as caring. A few people may care intensely. That is not the same as mass-market potential. The analyst’s job is to see where the two forces meet.
Multipliers: The Systems That Push Food Forward
One of Ballarini’s most useful terms is “multipliers.” It is better than “influencers” because it is broader and more precise. A multiplier is any actor or system that helps a dietary preference gain traction. It can be a chef, a restaurant, a supermarket, a government guideline, a school program, a celebrity, a cookbook, a TikTok creator, a retailer’s shelf decision, a medical claim, a media feature or a crisis.
Trends rarely travel by themselves. They need carriers. A chef can give an ingredient prestige. A supermarket can make it convenient. A government campaign can make it respectable. A health narrative can make it feel responsible. A celebrity can make it visible. A crisis can make it necessary. When enough multipliers move together, a trend stops feeling marginal and starts feeling normal.
Turmeric lattes show how this works. Their rise did not depend only on turmeric. It depended on health blogs, Ayurveda references, vegan cafés, anti-inflammatory language, golden colour, Instagram-friendly cups, plant-based milk and the growing consumer desire for drinks that felt functional and comforting. Each multiplier did part of the work. Together, they moved turmeric from spice rack to café menu to packaged latte mix.
Black garlic shows the opposite problem. It is delicious, complex and visually intriguing. Chefs love it. Food-curious consumers recognize it. Yet its multipliers have been inconsistent. It has not been supported by one strong lifestyle narrative, one obvious use case or one dominant retail format. It remains respected but niche.
That difference matters for food brands. A product team may fall in love with an ingredient because it tastes good in the lab. Ballarini’s method forces the harder question: who will multiply it? If the answer is only the brand itself, the risk is high. If chefs, creators, retailers, consumers and media already move around the idea, the opportunity becomes more serious.
This is also why nostalgic innovation often works. It has built-in depth. Consumers already know the emotional code. A brand can modernize it through limited editions, seasonal campaigns, new formats or digital storytelling. Dairy Queen’s 2025 summer campaign offers a WBC example of how nostalgia, product drops, promotional timing and digital activation can work together as multipliers rather than isolated marketing moves.
Multipliers do not guarantee quality. They can also inflate weak ideas. But they explain movement. They show why some foods spread while others wait in the wings.
Avocado, Soy, Oat Milk and the Problem of Staying Power
Avocado is a clean example of a food that changed meaning as it spread. In many Western markets, it moved from exotic fruit to wellness icon to brunch cliché to climate-debate object. It became a symbol of healthy fat, millennial lifestyle, photogenic eating and soft luxury. Avocado toast was never only toast. It was a public mood: green, creamy, casual, expensive enough to signal taste and simple enough to copy at home.
That is why avocado had depth. People did not just eat it. They identified with it. They posted it, defended it, joked about it and built rituals around it. The same product could fit breakfast, lunch, baby food, smoothies, salads, sushi, vegan cooking and beauty-coded wellness. It entered multiple dietary profiles at once.
Yet avocado also shows how trends become contested when their scale grows. Concerns around water use, monoculture, transport, deforestation and organized crime in supply chains have changed the emotional tone. The food has not disappeared because its acceptance depth remains strong, but the story around it has become more complicated. A trend with real depth does not necessarily die when criticism appears. It becomes argued over.
Soy tells a different story. For years, soy milk and tofu carried plant-based eating in many Western supermarkets. Soy was practical, protein-rich and already central in many Asian cuisines. But in newer plant-based discourse, soy began facing fatigue and suspicion. Health myths, allergen concerns, taste issues and environmental confusion created space for alternatives. Oat milk, almond milk, pea protein and other formats stepped in with fresher narratives.
Oat milk’s rise shows the power of use case. It did not win only because it was plant-based. It won because it worked in coffee. Barista culture turned oat milk into a daily habit. The texture made it easy. The taste felt mild. The climate story helped. Cafés provided repetition, and repetition built trust. Oat milk had a practical bridge into existing behaviour. That made it stronger than many novelty products with louder claims.
Toast Hawaii, by contrast, tells a historical story about novelty and aesthetic change. Pineapple, ham and cheese once gave the dish an air of playful exoticism in parts of postwar Europe. It belonged to a moment when canned tropical fruit signalled modernity and access. Later, the same combination began to look dated. The ingredients did not change. The culture around them did.
That is one of Ballarini’s recurring lessons. Food trends are not only about flavour. They are about timing. A dish can feel modern in one decade and embarrassing in another. A product can feel ethical until a new value system exposes its blind spot. A once-minor ingredient can become central when culture starts asking the question it answers.
Black Swan Events: When History Changes the Menu
Ballarini does not ignore disorder. His framework leaves space for shock. That is important because food trends often move through events nobody planned.
The BSE crisis changed how many consumers thought about beef, safety and transparency. It made industrial meat production visible in a new way. Trust became part of the eating decision. Consumers were not only asking whether beef tasted good. They were asking where it came from, how it was produced and whether institutions could be trusted to protect them.
COVID-19 created another rupture. It closed restaurants, changed grocery routines, pushed many households back into home cooking and made supply chains feel personal. Flour, yeast, canned goods, local delivery boxes, comfort food and sourdough starters became symbols of a strange domestic emergency. Some habits faded as restaurants reopened. Others stayed because they had aligned with deeper values: self-reliance, health concern, local support, family meals, pantry literacy and the desire for stability.
The war in Ukraine created a different kind of food shock. Sunflower oil shortages forced restaurants, retailers and manufacturers to rethink frying practices, recipes, sourcing and substitute oils. The change began as a supply problem, but supply problems can become taste problems and then habit problems. When a kitchen changes oil, the texture and flavour can change. When a packaged-food company reformulates, consumers may notice or resist. When prices stay high, a temporary adjustment can harden into a new standard.
These events matter because they reveal the difference between trend acceleration and trend destruction. A shock can destroy trust in a product, as BSE did for many consumers. It can accelerate existing behaviour, as COVID did with home cooking, delivery and local-food attention. It can expose dependency, as the Ukraine war did with sunflower oil. The food system changes when external pressure meets internal readiness.
This is why the future of food cannot be forecast only through consumer desire. Desire is one force. Supply is another. Regulation, climate, war, disease, labour, logistics and energy can all move the plate. Ballarini’s framework becomes stronger because it does not treat trends as purely voluntary. People may choose, but they choose within systems.
From the Book to the Boardroom
The real test of a food-trend framework is whether it helps people make better decisions. Ballarini’s work does.
For restaurateurs, the dietary profile can test whether a menu idea has the right emotional alignment. A chef may want to introduce offal, seaweed, insects, fermented grains or a zero-waste tasting menu. The question is not only whether the dish is good. It is whether the audience has enough acceptance width, enough acceptance depth or enough trusted multipliers to make the dish legible. A concept can lead diners, but it still has to meet them somewhere.
For product developers, the width-depth model can identify underexploited spaces. A niche with high depth may be ready for careful expansion. A mass behaviour with low depth may be vulnerable to replacement. A loud hype with low depth may be useful for content but dangerous for long development cycles. A quiet habit with strong repeat use may be more valuable than a viral spike.
For marketers, Ballarini’s method offers discipline. It warns against spending heavily on shallow hype. A trend that looks huge for two weeks may not justify packaging, manufacturing and retail commitments. Marketers need to know whether consumers are merely watching or actually integrating the behaviour. A saved recipe, a repeat purchase, a menu copycat and a supermarket shelf are stronger signals than a single viral clip.
For policymakers, the book has another use. Healthier and more sustainable eating cannot be promoted only through information. People already know many things they do not act on. Ballarini’s model suggests that cultural acceptance matters. A policy that ignores identity, access and daily routine will struggle. A campaign that works with existing dietary profiles can move further. School meals, public procurement, plant-forward defaults, food education and local supply programs all need cultural intelligence, not only nutritional targets.
For food media, the lesson may be the most uncomfortable. Trend writing has to get better. It cannot simply declare the next ingredient. It has to explain why the ingredient is moving, who benefits, what values it carries, what systems support it and where the resistance sits. Otherwise, food journalism becomes an extension of marketing.
Trends Are Not Fads
One of the strongest ideas running through Nutrition in Transition is the difference between a fad and a trend. A fad is visible. A trend is embedded. A fad gives people something to try. A trend changes what they consider normal. A fad may be driven by novelty, aesthetics or temporary social proof. A trend survives because it connects to values, routines and infrastructure.
Feta pasta is a useful WBC case here. It became a defining TikTok food moment because it was visually clear, easy to copy and emotionally timed for pandemic home cooking. It also showed how quickly a food idea can peak when everyone repeats the same format at once. Viral abundance can create its own exhaustion.
Ballarini’s model gives language to that cycle. Feta pasta had huge width for a moment. It also had practical depth because people actually cooked it. But its emotional range was narrow. Once the novelty passed, it did not necessarily reshape the pasta category in a deep way. It remained a signal of a specific cultural moment.
By contrast, plant-based milk changed daily ordering behaviour. Sushi changed lunch culture. Avocado changed breakfast codes. Nose-to-tail cooking changed ethical language in restaurants, even if it did not become mass behaviour everywhere. These are different levels of trend impact, and they should not be treated as the same.
That is why Ballarini’s approach feels useful now. It gives trend analysts permission to be less dazzled. Not everything fast is meaningful. Not everything slow is dead. A food idea may take decades to become normal. Another may reach millions overnight and still leave no trace.
Food as Identity, Not Just Intake
The book’s deeper value lies in how it connects food to identity. People do not merely consume. They perform, remember, rebel, belong and distinguish themselves. A Gen Z student buying vegan nuggets may be making a climate statement, a convenience choice, an animal-welfare choice or a peer-coded identity move. A millennial drinking mushroom coffee may be chasing focus, natural performance or the feeling of being slightly ahead of mainstream wellness. A boomer returning to sourdough after lockdown may be seeking comfort, craft and control.
This is where acceptance depth becomes essential. It measures emotional charge. How much do people care? Will they talk about it? Will they defend it? Will they cook it for others? Will they pay more? Will they change a habit? Will they feel seen by the product? Will they feel judged without it?
Food brands often misread this. They see a trend object and miss the emotional system. They copy the ingredient but not the reason. They launch the mushroom, the oat, the chili crisp, the protein claim or the heritage grain without understanding what it lets the consumer say about themselves. Then they wonder why the product feels flat.
A trend’s emotional tone matters as much as its functional promise. The same ingredient can succeed as comfort and fail as optimization. It can succeed as nostalgia and fail as innovation. It can succeed in a restaurant and fail in retail. It can succeed with chefs and fail with parents. Food always enters a life. Ballarini’s work is valuable because it keeps that life in view.
What the Framework Cannot Fully Predict
A serious reading of Nutrition in Transition should also name the limits. No framework can fully predict culture. Black swan events can disrupt the best model. Platforms can change algorithms overnight. A safety scare can destroy trust. A celebrity can accelerate a food for reasons no analyst saw coming. A war, drought or regulation can shift supply before consumer desire has time to speak.
There is also the danger of over-systematizing taste. Food is patterned, but it is not mechanical. People are inconsistent. They may care about climate at breakfast and buy imported beef at dinner. They may criticize ultra-processing and love nostalgic candy. They may say they want local food, then choose convenience. They may reject artificiality in one category and embrace it in sports nutrition. A good framework must leave room for contradiction.
Ballarini’s model works best as a disciplined lens, not a prophecy machine. It helps analysts ask better questions. It does not remove the need for fieldwork, tasting, listening and judgment. The most dangerous trend forecasters are not the ones without data. They are the ones who think data has replaced cultural attention.
This counterpoint makes the book more useful, not less. Its value lies in structure. It gives professionals a way to organize evidence without pretending the future is tidy. Food culture has never been tidy. It is biological, emotional, economic and symbolic all at once.
The WBC Reading: Better Signals, Less Noise
For Wild Bite Club, Nutrition in Transition belongs inside the Food Trend Intelligence cluster because it strengthens the question behind every serious trend report: what is actually changing? Not what is briefly visible. Not what is being pushed by a campaign. Not what looks good in a thumbnail. What is changing in the relationship between people, food and culture?
Ballarini’s framework helps separate signal from noise. It asks whether a food has acceptance width. It asks whether it has acceptance depth. It asks whether multipliers are aligned. It asks whether the dietary profile is ready. It asks whether the trend connects to a larger value system such as health, sustainability, identity, convenience, nostalgia, ethics or status.
That matters because the food world has become crowded with false certainty. Brands want the next growth space. Restaurants want the next menu hook. Retailers want the next category expansion. Media wants the next headline. Consumers want the next thing that feels both new and personally meaningful. Without a framework, everyone mistakes motion for direction.
The book’s real contribution is not that it names every future trend. It gives readers a way to think. It turns food-trend research into an applied cultural discipline. A chef can use it before building a menu. A brand can use it before funding a product. A retailer can use it before making shelf space. A journalist can use it before calling something a movement.
Why Nutrition in Transition Matters Now
The timing is sharp. Food culture is entering a period of deep fragmentation. Consumers are pulled between health and pleasure, climate and convenience, tradition and novelty, naturalness and food tech, local sourcing and global craving. Younger diners use food to express values, but they also want speed. Older consumers may seek comfort, but they are not immune to innovation. Social media accelerates everything, while inflation, war and climate pressure remind the market that supply still matters.
In that environment, trend work becomes harder. It is no longer enough to watch restaurants. It is not enough to watch TikTok. It is not enough to read supermarket launches or chef interviews. The analyst has to connect them. A trend may begin in a subculture, gain visual force online, enter cafés, receive health framing, land in retail and then meet criticism around sustainability. Each stage changes the meaning.
Ballarini’s book gives that process a language. Dietary profile. Acceptance width. Acceptance depth. Multipliers. Shocks. Values. These are simple terms, but they open a serious method. They help explain why food trends are not random decoration on the surface of culture. They are the visible edge of deeper shifts.
The most important lesson may be this: flavour is necessary, but it is not enough. A food can taste good and fail. A food can taste strange and succeed. A food can begin as a dare and become daily. A food can begin as a moral promise and collapse under its own contradictions. The plate changes when desire meets permission.
Conclusion: The Future Belongs to Better Readers
Nutrition in Transition deserves attention because it treats food trends with seriousness without making them dull. Ballarini understands that trends are not trivial. They reveal how societies process fear, aspiration, memory, identity, scarcity, technology and pleasure. They show what people want to become, not only what they want to eat.
The book’s tools are intuitive enough to use and strong enough to travel. The dietary profile maps collective appetite. Acceptance width shows reach. Acceptance depth shows commitment. Multipliers explain movement. Black swan events remind the reader that history still enters the kitchen without knocking.
For restaurateurs, the message is clear: do not chase ingredients without reading the diner. For product developers: do not mistake trial for loyalty. For marketers: do not spend against shallow hype. For policymakers: do not promote better eating without understanding culture. For journalists: do not call everything a trend because it photographs well.
Food trends shape the future because they change the ordinary. They decide what appears in lunchboxes, what lands on shelves, what enters cafés, what becomes desirable, what becomes embarrassing and what becomes normal. Ballarini’s achievement is to make that process visible.
In the end, Nutrition in Transition is a book about food, but it is also a book about attention. It teaches readers to look past the viral dish and into the system beneath it. That is where the future of eating begins: not in the hype, but in the hidden structure of appetite.
Sources
- BoD: Nutrition in transition by Michael Ballarini
- UCTV: The History of Food: The Universalization of Regional Food Practices
- Knowledge at Wharton: How Sushi Has Changed Globalization
- DW: Sushi boom and the hidden costs of global supply chains
- Public Health Nutrition: Changes in home food inventories during COVID-19
- The Guardian: Ukraine war and sunflower oil shortages