Dispatches from Yogurt Girl

Before we begin, I should confess something: I am a yogurt fiend. At boarding school, someone once opened my mini fridge and found it packed entirely with Fage Greek yogurt. The nickname came fast: Yogurt Girl. Mildly humiliating, but not inaccurate.

Yogurt has always been my comfort food: breakfast, lunch, sometimes even dinner (I know, I know…weird). It’s one of those rare constants that make unfamiliar places feel a little more like home. Even here at Yale, yogurt is my anchor. But I’ve learned something the hard way here: not all yogurt is created equal.

The Dining Hall Dilemma

Last year’s dining hall yogurt was good: dense, tangy, and clung to the spoon the way yogurt ought to. This year’s version? A different story.

I am a big proponent of tart, unsweetened yogurt. But this variety is so sweet it’s approaching syrup territory. Also, there’s a slight coconut-y aftertaste which I don’t really mind, but it catches me off guard in an unpleasant way.

It’s thin, runny, and not my vibe. It squirms off the spoon like it’s trying to get away from you.

Yogurt should hold things. It’s a vessel: for fruit, nuts, and granola. It’s not something that collapses under its toppings.

The Daily Fix

So I improvise. Most mornings I grab a plain Greek Chobani from the Bow Wow. It’s not glamorous, but it’s reliable, yummy enough, and covered by meal points: the college trifecta. Sometimes it gives me that faint sour-cream ick, but I forgive it. I’ll mix in one of those little fruit cups: a few slices of melon or some grapes. The combination doesn’t amaze me, but it gets the job done.

There’s comfort in the routine. I sit down, peel back the lid, and it’s the same every time. I have my perfect little bowl in front of me, and scroll the Times before heading to class. I savor this moment of calm bliss each morning.

The Gold Standard

If I had my pick, I’d be eating Straus Family Creamery yogurt. It’s a California brand that’s been my gold standard for years. It’s thick and rich without feeling heavy, with a flavor that’s balanced: slightly sour, slightly creamy, alive in that way quality dairy is (think Kombucha scoby vibe, or Sourdough mother).

It’s literally so good.

You can’t find Straus in Connecticut, which feels personally offensive. I’ve hunted through boutique grocery stores, like Atticus Market,  hoping for a miracle sighting. I’ve come close, but no cigar. It’s a little piece of home that refuses to follow me east.

When I do have it, I top it with berries, a scoop of passion fruit, or slices of peach and mint. Sometimes strawberries and peanut butter. Never bananas. The chalky oxalic acid with dairy? No thank you.

The Misses and the Hits

The Elm’s yogurt cup should be great. It has passionfruit purée and granola. The whole thing is beautifully layered when you look at the cup from the side. But it never quite lands. The yogurt’s loose, the “jam” more like juice, the granola heavy on coconut, tipping the balance from refreshing to cloying. It’s aiming for tropical; it lands in dessert-for-breakfast territory.

Granola, though, deserves its due. It’s the unsung backbone of a yogurt bowl, the crunch, the contrast. The dining hall’s version, to its credit, gets it right: toasty, dense, with actual structure. Whoever makes it, thank you.

But the best yogurt near campus, the one I think about more often than I’d like to admit, is at Atticus. Yes, I know… Atticus is an overplayed favorite. But I don’t care. Their yogurt is exceptional.

It’s thick and silky, almost tacky on the spoon in the best way. It sits somewhere between Greek yogurt and skyr, an Icelandic-style yogurt. The fruit topping is a compote. It’s rich, balanced, and never too sweet. The granola comes on the side (bless them) so you can control the crunch. It’s oat-centric, definitely, but I’m okay with that!

The Truth

I’ve realized it’s not really the yogurt I’m obsessed with. It’s the reliability. Yogurt doesn’t try too hard;  it’s simple, steady, and unpretentious.

Maybe that’s what I’m really chasing each morning when I reach for my next Chobani cup. A small ritual. A familiar texture. Something that stays the same.

Call it habit. Call it comfort. Call it fate. Call it karma. 

Or, fine… call it Yogurt Girl behavior.