Everyone’s talking shite. I’m just breathing it in.

We used to eat food. Now we perform it.

I remember when dinner was something you inhaled after work — a plate of whatever was left in the fridge and the faint smell of panic. Now, it’s a ceremonial act. Plates have to be styled. Lighting adjusted. Sauces drizzled like Jackson Pollock was hungry and late for yoga.

We don’t cook anymore; we curate.

Somewhere between Jamie Oliver’s “bish bash bosh” and the invention of air fryers, food became a moral statement. You can’t just eat. You have to stand for something.

Are you gluten-free, dairy-free, joy-free? Do you forage? Is your sourdough alive?
We’ve built an entire identity around pretending we give a shit about herbs.

And the worst part? I’ve been there.

At one point, I was photographing toast. Angling it just so. Making sure the butter glistened like self-esteem on a sunny day. I’d spend more time editing a slice of bread than reading a book. Because somewhere in my head was the whisper: make it look perfect.

It’s the same disease that runs through everything now — the idea that if you make something look right, maybe you are right.

We live in the age of plating up our lives.
Everything is presentation. Everything needs a caption.

But here’s the truth:
The best meals I’ve ever had were messy.
A pan full of pasta and chaos.
Grease on the counter. Someone spilling wine. Laughter that didn’t need hashtags.

Perfection doesn’t taste like anything.

Real food, like real life, is a bit burnt around the edges.
It’s uneven, over-salted, shared, sometimes regretted.

And yet we still chase the perfect plate — the perfect job, perfect partner, perfect home, perfect life. As if neatness equals meaning.

It doesn’t.

So here’s my plea: let it be ugly.
Let it be real.
Stop pretending that your lasagne says something about your moral fibre.

Food should be nourishment, not performance art.
And if you burn it, laugh, scrape the black bits off, and eat it anyway.

Because at least you’re still hungry.

— Tom Kite.