West Virginia Defies Big Food: Kids’ Health vs. Profiteers

Paul Riverbank, 12/27/2025West Virginia bans food dyes, igniting industry lawsuits and fierce debate over kids’ health and regulation.

Kennedy’s remarks that day, tying additives to ADHD in kids and steadily accumulating cancer risks, might have felt overblown a decade ago. Today, not so much. He pointed to mountains of studies and didn’t mince words about the “very clear links” he saw between certain food dyes and long-term health problems. Yet not everyone gathered outside that brick courthouse felt reassured. Within weeks, the International Association of Color Manufacturers—a D.C. group not known for shying away from a legal fight—had filed suit, claiming the law went too far and sounded alarms that seemed louder than the evidence warranted.

Their argument, boiled down, was familiar and carefully lawyered. No state, no federal agency, no court had ever officially labeled these dyes as unsafe, they said, and picking on certain color additives now feels less like science, more like policy built on a hunch. The association warned that letting states carve their own rules would create chaos—no business, much less giants like Kraft Heinz or PepsiCo, wants to unravel a web of conflicting requirements just to ship a box of cookies across state lines. The word “arbitrary” was tossed around liberally in their legal papers, underscoring the real fear: rising costs for companies, and maybe, by extension, the West Virginians they serve.

Judge Irene Berger, herself a product of the federal appointment process under President Obama, didn’t exactly rush her ruling. Her decision landed with the thud of a dense, 30-page document dissecting the state’s approach. She looked at what legislators meant by terms like “poisonous and injurious,” raising a question only a lawyer or an exasperated parent might—what would it really take to call a food dye a hazard? If a concerned parent rings up the Department of Health about their child’s reaction, Berger wondered, is that enough to trigger action, or does the state owe it to residents to dig further? The answers, she suggested, weren’t clear, and that lack of clarity was reason enough to hit the brakes for now.

But the court’s hesitation only seemed to embolden those who’d pressed for the ban. “The state has a duty to protect our youngest residents,” Governor Morrisey shot back, frustration lacing his statement. Others, like Delegate David Elliott Pritt, went further, casting the industry’s legal battle as a morality play. “There’s something deeply wrong,” he fumed, “about fighting for your right to include dubious chemicals in kids’ food—especially when you know the risks.” The rhetoric, as debates like this tend to, got raw fast.

Meanwhile, national interests were quietly circling. Heavyweight food manufacturers formed their own alliance, dubbed Americans for Ingredient Transparency—a name that nearly sounds designed for a cable news chyron. Their message: changes like West Virginia’s could hammer family budgets at a time when supermarket prices are already a punchline at kitchen tables. “People want healthier food, yes, but not if it means paying double for everyday groceries,” argued Sam Geduldig, who lobbies for Kraft Heinz. He framed it as a battle between well-meaning reform and economic reality.

In private, some industry players called the state’s move reckless. Others, pointing to research—including a recent international review linking ultra-processed foods to strikingly higher rates of heart disease and diabetes—countered that public officials had to act if Washington wouldn’t. The result is an uneasy tug-of-war, complicated by the ghost of past debates; it took the federal government 14 years to outlaw trans fats, even after cities like New York moved ahead.

Walmart, characteristically, saw which way the wind was blowing and opted to get out ahead, announcing it’ll purge synthetic dyes from its house brands by January, new rules or no. Not everyone, though, is waiting for the marketplace. State legislators in Virginia, Utah, Arizona, and California have begun floating their own bans, particularly when it comes to school lunches.

At its core, the West Virginia fight is hardly just about powdered coloring agents. It’s about where power sits—capital rotundas in Charleston or federal buildings in Washington. Some, like Jennifer Galardi of the Heritage Foundation, see virtue in letting states experiment, keeping big companies on their toes and preventing the slow churn of federal change from becoming an excuse to do nothing. “If every food fight ends up in Washington, you risk letting deep-pocketed lobbyists shape the rules,” Galardi told me.

That tension, of course, isn’t going away. Whether West Virginia’s law will hold up isn’t clear—not with judges, parents, lobbyists, and governors all pulling in different directions. But as grocery bills climb and headlines about processed foods mount, the question won’t be boxed up easily.

Will it take another New York-style local experiment to spark a nationwide shift? Or will the patchwork approach only deepen public confusion and frustration? Americans are paying more attention to what lands in their shopping carts, and increasingly, they’re asking who gets the final say.

The debate over food dyes in West Virginia began not with a whisper, but with the flash of cameras and the scratch of a governor’s pen on paper. On a brisk morning in Martinsburg, where red brick city blocks meet the distant hum of Appalachian foothills, Governor Patrick Morrisey, flanked by a determined Health and Human Services Secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr., signed a bill that would see a slate of controversial dyes and additives swept from the state's grocery shelves. The symbolism was thick in the air—Kennedy, never one to hold back, spoke with the earnestness of a parent rather than a bureaucrat. “We cannot ignore what the studies are telling us,” he insisted, eyes skipping over parents in the assembled crowd. “Some of these additives, like Red 3, aren’t just mysterious numbers on a label—they’re warning signs.”Kennedy’s remarks that day, tying additives to ADHD in kids and steadily accumulating cancer risks, might have felt overblown a decade ago. Today, not so much. He pointed to mountains of studies and didn’t mince words about the “very clear links” he saw between certain food dyes and long-term health problems. Yet not everyone gathered outside that brick courthouse felt reassured. Within weeks, the International Association of Color Manufacturers—a D.C. group not known for shying away from a legal fight—had filed suit, claiming the law went too far and sounded alarms that seemed louder than the evidence warranted.Their argument, boiled down, was familiar and carefully lawyered. No state, no federal agency, no court had ever officially labeled these dyes as unsafe, they said, and picking on certain color additives now feels less like science, more like policy built on a hunch. The association warned that letting states carve their own rules would create chaos—no business, much less giants like Kraft Heinz or PepsiCo, wants to unravel a web of conflicting requirements just to ship a box of cookies across state lines. The word “arbitrary” was tossed around liberally in their legal papers, underscoring the real fear: rising costs for companies, and maybe, by extension, the West Virginians they serve.Judge Irene Berger, herself a product of the federal appointment process under President Obama, didn’t exactly rush her ruling. Her decision landed with the thud of a dense, 30-page document dissecting the state’s approach. She looked at what legislators meant by terms like “poisonous and injurious,” raising a question only a lawyer or an exasperated parent might—what would it really take to call a food dye a hazard? If a concerned parent rings up the Department of Health about their child’s reaction, Berger wondered, is that enough to trigger action, or does the state owe it to residents to dig further? The answers, she suggested, weren’t clear, and that lack of clarity was reason enough to hit the brakes for now.But the court’s hesitation only seemed to embolden those who’d pressed for the ban. “The state has a duty to protect our youngest residents,” Governor Morrisey shot back, frustration lacing his statement. Others, like Delegate David Elliott Pritt, went further, casting the industry’s legal battle as a morality play. “There’s something deeply wrong,” he fumed, “about fighting for your right to include dubious chemicals in kids’ food—especially when you know the risks.” The rhetoric, as debates like this tend to, got raw fast.Meanwhile, national interests were quietly circling. Heavyweight food manufacturers formed their own alliance, dubbed Americans for Ingredient Transparency—a name that nearly sounds designed for a cable news chyron. Their message: changes like West Virginia’s could hammer family budgets at a time when supermarket prices are already a punchline at kitchen tables. “People want healthier food, yes, but not if it means paying double for everyday groceries,” argued Sam Geduldig, who lobbies for Kraft Heinz. He framed it as a battle between well-meaning reform and economic reality.In private, some industry players called the state’s move reckless. Others, pointing to research—including a recent international review linking ultra-processed foods to strikingly higher rates of heart disease and diabetes—countered that public officials had to act if Washington wouldn’t. The result is an uneasy tug-of-war, complicated by the ghost of past debates; it took the federal government 14 years to outlaw trans fats, even after cities like New York moved ahead.Walmart, characteristically, saw which way the wind was blowing and opted to get out ahead, announcing it’ll purge synthetic dyes from its house brands by January, new rules or no. Not everyone, though, is waiting for the marketplace. State legislators in Virginia, Utah, Arizona, and California have begun floating their own bans, particularly when it comes to school lunches.At its core, the West Virginia fight is hardly just about powdered coloring agents. It’s about where power sits—capital rotundas in Charleston or federal buildings in Washington. Some, like Jennifer Galardi of the Heritage Foundation, see virtue in letting states experiment, keeping big companies on their toes and preventing the slow churn of federal change from becoming an excuse to do nothing. “If every food fight ends up in Washington, you risk letting deep-pocketed lobbyists shape the rules,” Galardi told me.That tension, of course, isn’t going away. Whether West Virginia’s law will hold up isn’t clear—not with judges, parents, lobbyists, and governors all pulling in different directions. But as grocery bills climb and headlines about processed foods mount, the question won’t be boxed up easily.Will it take another New York-style local experiment to spark a nationwide shift? Or will the patchwork approach only deepen public confusion and frustration? Americans are paying more attention to what lands in their shopping carts, and increasingly, they’re asking who gets the final say.