I have a confession: in the middle of my 75 Hard spiral鈥攁 social media-sanctioned self-optimization grind disguised as a fitness challenge鈥擨 made queso. Not just any queso. Cottage cheese queso. This is a sentence I never thought I鈥檇 write.

I started the challenge this past February鈥攑artly to beat the winter blues in the Northeast, and partly because I needed a reset after taste-testing one too many of Santa鈥檚 cookies. I was committed to said challenge. This meant: doing two 45-minute (at least one of them outdoors), reading ten pages of a nonfiction book, and drinking a gallon of water . . . each day. Most intimidatingly, I was supposed to stick to a diet of my choosing. I went all in: HIIT training, 4.5-mile runs, Becoming Supernatural queued up on my e-reader, and a squeaky-clean keto plan that had me eating organic, grass-fed (and grass-finished) beef that I could barely afford. I tracked macros and considered electrolyte ratios. I had come to terms with the fact that I鈥檇 become someone who used the term 鈥渆lectrolyte ratios鈥� in casual conversation.

And then I burned out.

Somewhere around Day 42, I traded mountain climbers for Yin Yoga. I prioritized taking long walks, watching white-tailed rabbits hopping alongside the estuary near my home in Boston, Massachusetts, over chasing yesterday鈥檚 personal best. The diet? That crumbled when I tried to justify the cost of avocados and eggs and failed. (Within the last year, the price of a rose by 75 percent, and the usual three bucks I鈥檇 spend on a turned into five.)

Still, I wanted to eat well(ish), which for me, means protein-heavy, low-effort, and ideally not financially ruinous. So, like any overstimulated elder millennial trying to avoid decision fatigue (and wear sunscreen, and hydrate, and remember to call mom), I turned to Instagram.

Welcome to the chat. With 3.5 million followers, Rick Wiggins shares quick, high-protein recipes meant to satisfy cravings while staying protein-powered. His creations looked suspiciously easy. His voice was refreshingly monotone. I was in.

As I scrolled, one ingredient kept popping up, an ingredient I found personally affronting: cottage cheese. It was white and lumpy. It was wet. It was everywhere. Rick blended it into pizza crusts, brownies, and pancakes. And it wasn鈥檛 just on Rick鈥檚 page. TikTok, too, had fully surrendered to the curd鈥攚hich was confusing. Because for me, I never saw it in my Caribbean household growing up. My parents didn鈥檛 eat it. We didn鈥檛 cook with it. To borrow from Mariah Carey: I don鈥檛 know her.

The message? This is food you eat because it鈥檚 good for you.

So when I made queso out of it (blended with cheddar, cream, taco seasoning, and hot sauce) and served it to a friend while hanging out, I didn’t tell them what was in it. They liked it. Called it “fire.” Then I broke the news.

They looked at me like I鈥檇 confessed to putting mayonnaise in brownies: 鈥淲ait . . . like, real cottage cheese?鈥�

鈥淵es. From a tub. Bought on purpose.鈥�

I was surprised, too, because the queso was, in fact, fire. But I was also curious. Because how did goat cheese鈥檚 sad, step-cousin become America鈥檚 newest protein-packed heartthrob?

I. TikTok, but Make It Clumpy

In April 2023, holistic nutritionist Lainie Kates鈥� on TikTok and for the renewed interest in cottage cheese鈥攑osted a high-protein peanut butter cheesecake “ice cream” . In it, she blended cottage cheese, peanut butter, chocolate chips, and maple syrup. Froze it. Ate it. Her video went viral. The internet was flooded with cheesecake bowls, ranch dips, and 鈥減rotein donuts鈥濃�攎ost of which starred cottage cheese. It didn鈥檛 matter that the texture was off-putting. It blended well. It hit macros. That was enough.

Then brands caught on. In 2024, Daisy, sour cream鈥檚 shepherd, with The Bachelor鈥檚 Daisy Kent to promote the brand鈥檚 equally famous cottage cheese.

Just this month, Trader Joe鈥檚 dropped . Good Culture, a brand started in 2015, was literally to bring a revamped, better-tasting, and healthier version of cottage cheese to the public. A few weeks ago, they put out a meme-laden on Instagram saying that they can’t keep up with the demand for their iconic cottage cheese, confirming聽the cheese’s renewed popularity.

The message? This is food you eat because it鈥檚 good for you鈥攃rafted with “,鈥� made with only 鈥�,鈥� and 鈥�.鈥� That鈥檚 how the brands framed it. And if the messaging sounds familiar, that鈥檚 because we’ve heard it before.

II. A Short History of a Long Shelf Life

In the early 1900s, the U.S. had a problem: meat was scarce during World War I. To help conserve it, the U.S. Department of Agriculture promoted dairy as a substitute. Posters encouraged people to “.” It wasn鈥檛 just a suggestion; it was patriotism.

By the 1950s, cottage cheese had migrated from the war effort to weight-loss plans. It was low in fat, high in protein, and flavorless enough to avoid overindulgence. You could measure it. You (probably) wouldn鈥檛 overeat it. Thus, it was ideal for calorie counting.

That鈥檚 right around the time when the 鈥溾�� made its way to America鈥檚 diner menus鈥攗sually a scoop of cottage cheese, a ring of canned peach or sliced tomato, maybe a wedge of iceberg lettuce. It wasn鈥檛 really a meal. It was more of a performance. A way to show you were being good. These lingered well into the seventies and eighties, eventually evolving into the 鈥淟ite鈥� menu I remember seeing at Long Island diners during my childhood in the nineties. Same scoop, same canned fruit鈥攋ust rebranded for the next generation of restraint.

Cottage cheese didn鈥檛 evolve. It was just repurposed. And maybe that鈥檚 the clearest sign of its legacy: it survives not by being loved but by being useful.

By 1972, Americans were eating about of cottage cheese per person each year. Even Richard Nixon was known to . YUM. He had such a lust for lactose, in fact, that he reportedly requested cottage cheese at his 1969 inauguration dinner. And when he resigned from office in 1974? His final White House was cottage cheese with pineapple and a glass of milk. A presidency bookended by curds.

III. Who Was It Really For?

Not everyone was eating it. Rather, not everyone was meant to be eating it. Mid-twentieth-century food campaigns primarily targeted . Cottage cheese came with a message鈥攅at this, stay thin, stay beautiful, stay in control.

Cottage cheese was sold as a democratic food: cheap, accessible, healthy. But it never belonged to everyone.

Even when it showed up in government campaigns and school lunches, it wasn鈥檛 a staple in every home. It simply didn鈥檛 catch on in many immigrant, Black, and working-class communities. Part of that was logistics. Cottage cheese requires refrigeration, fresh milk, and a cold distribution chain, not always available in rural or .

Look at the ads. White women in full makeup, smiling at tubs of cottage cheese like they鈥檇 just invented it. One Eden Vale ad shows a nuclear family floating through a suburban utopia, landing at a table set with cottage cheese salads and a big tomato. A Knudsen ad features a flawless woman offering a tub of 鈥淰ELVET creamed cottage cheese,鈥� promising sweetness, lightness, and domestic perfection. Borden鈥檚 went all in: cartoon cows, crisp lettuce, and cottage cheese rings studded with peas and carrot sticks. No spice, no mess鈥攋ust a carefully styled portrait of control, domestic order, and cultural exclusion.

These images weren鈥檛 neutral. They reinforced the message: this is who eats this, and this is how you serve it. In her 2011 book, , historian Katherine J. Parkin argues that mid-20th-century food advertising reinforced narrow ideals of femininity, pressuring women to equate thinness, domestic perfection, and family nourishment with personal value.

But the bigger issue was taste. Cottage cheese didn鈥檛 reflect the ingredients or textures of most non-white food cultures.

My Caribbean family鈥檚 fridge, for example, held sorrel, pepper sauce, and mango chutney, not clumps of dairy. So, when I brought home a container of Good Culture to recreate my (self-proclaimed) famous queso, they looked at it suspiciously. Then they聽asked what I planned to do with it. When I said 鈥渜ueso,鈥� they raised their eyebrows and sucked their teeth. They weren鈥檛 offended. Just confused. It鈥檚 understandable because the marketing never spoke to them. And it wasn鈥檛 designed to.

IV. Cottage Cheese Loses Its Steam

Even among the people it was supposedly for, cottage cheese couldn鈥檛 hold on.

By the 1980s, its popularity 鈥攓uietly edged out by a new dairy star with smoother texture, stronger marketing, and fewer identity issues: yogurt. High in protein, rich in backstory, and aggressively rebranded as a probiotic superfood, yogurt didn鈥檛 just enter the chat鈥攊t took over the conversation.

Cottage cheese didn鈥檛 know how to compete. There were no new formats, no updated flavors, no attempt to win over younger shoppers. It stayed in its big old tub, parked on the fridge shelf. Meanwhile, yogurt was out living聽its best life鈥攑opping up as Go-Gurt in school lunchboxes, and with glass jars with foil lids in meal-preps. One became a lifestyle product; the other stayed a buffet-line staple at your grandmother鈥檚 favorite salad bar.

The texture didn鈥檛 help. In a 2012 study published in the , researchers found that texture was the biggest barrier to cottage cheese acceptance, especially among younger consumers. The graininess, visual lumpiness, and curdy mouthfeel turned people off, even when the fat and protein content hit all the right numbers. Even versions labeled 鈥渓ow-fat鈥� or 鈥渉igh-protein鈥� couldn鈥檛 overcome the basic sensory mismatch. People didn鈥檛 hate what it stood for. They just didn鈥檛 want to eat it and feel it on their tongues.

At the same time, yogurt brands were investing in stories. Chobani was founded by an who turned a struggling factory into a billion-dollar company.聽Dannon built a whole campaign around Georgian and the secret to long life. Yogurt had a point of view. Cottage cheese didn鈥檛 even have a spokesperson.

By the 2010s, yogurt was 聽cottage cheese nearly eight to one. And cottage cheese wasn鈥檛 just fading in market share鈥攊t was fading in memory. It stopped being an expectation. For most people, it stopped being an option.

So when it started trending again鈥攕neaking into dips, desserts, and TikTok reels鈥攊t felt less like a comeback and more like a glitch. Cottage cheese didn鈥檛 evolve. It was just repurposed. And maybe that鈥檚 the clearest sign of its legacy: it survives not by being loved but by being useful.

V. Diet Culture, Rebranded

Today鈥檚 cottage cheese wave still centers on the same values: control, efficiency, and self-regulation. The language changed, but the pressure stayed. It鈥檚 no longer 鈥渟tay thin for your husband,鈥� it鈥檚 鈥渙ptimize your macros.鈥�

The look changed, too. It鈥檚 not a scoop on a peach slice. It鈥檚 whipped, blended, hidden in dips, ice creams, and sauces. It鈥檚 in a glass bowl, drizzled with chili crisp and tagged #highprotein on an influencer鈥檚聽 鈥淲hat I Eat in a Day鈥� reel. But the performance is the same: eat this to prove you鈥檙e doing the work.

We used to count calories (some people still do). Now we count macros. We used to tally Weight Watchers points. Now we use apps and fitness watches to track calories burned. We used to aim for thin. Now we say lean.

Blending until smooth is a requirement. The texture is still a problem, it鈥檚 just one we鈥檙e now expected to fix. And the brands know that.

Cottage聽cheese itself still needed a rebrand鈥攏ot because it was forgotten, but because it was never truly loved. It has to justify itself because it can鈥檛 rely on flavor or nostalgia.

Modern cottage cheese branding sells function first: gut health, low carb, high protein. The packaging often mirrors wellness trends鈥攃lean lines, block fonts, neutral palettes鈥攖he same aesthetic you鈥檇 find in a Scandinavian furniture showroom. Some lean into compliance culture, highlighting Whole30- or keto-friendly ingredients. Others soften the message by adding flavor cues, but even then, pleasure is usually positioned as a bonus, not the point.

Take Trader Joe鈥檚 ranch cottage cheese dip: 鈥渁 fantastically flavorful dip,鈥� yes鈥攂ut only after mentioning its protein content, versatility, and use in pancakes, pasta, and frittatas. The indulgence comes with an asterisk. It鈥檚 not just tasty鈥攊t鈥檚 functional.

I鈥檝e tried the Good Culture stuff. It鈥檚 fine. It blends well. But cottage cheese itself still needed a rebrand鈥攏ot because it was forgotten, but because it was never truly loved. It has to justify itself because it can鈥檛 rely on flavor or nostalgia.

Maybe that鈥檚 why it fits so well into modern wellness culture. We鈥檝e replaced calorie charts with meal-prep hacks. But the goal remains: Build a better body. Be a better person. Stay in control.

Cottage cheese still fits that mold. Just like it always has.

VI. Reflection: The Cheese That Refused to Quit

I didn鈥檛 expect to end up here鈥攚ith a half-used container of cottage cheese in my fridge and a short list of recipes I鈥檓 not embarrassed to share. I still don鈥檛 love it. I don鈥檛 crave it. But I鈥檝e learned to respect it.

That respect came from looking back. Cottage cheese didn鈥檛 trend because a TikToker froze it into a dessert. It鈥檚 been around for over a century, always showing up when we decide food should prove something. War, weight loss, wellness鈥攃ottage cheese shows up to work. (FYI: I explain some even more extraordinary uses for cottage cheese in the video below.)

Once it was about thrift. Then self-denial. Now it鈥檚 optimization. But the message doesn鈥檛 change: If聽you eat this, you鈥檙e trying. You鈥檙e disciplined. You鈥檙e doing it right.

And that鈥檚 why it still makes people uncomfortable.

You don鈥檛 have to explain why you like donuts. But cottage cheese? You need a reason. High protein. Gut-friendly. You don鈥檛 just eat it, you earn it.

Whether I鈥檝e earned it or not,聽 I鈥檝e blended it into queso. Stirred it into pancakes. Eaten it鈥攙ery reluctantly鈥攂y the spoonful. Once. I鈥檓 not a fan.

But I鈥檓 not against it anymore, either.

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