Honestly, who approved this? That’s the question I find myself muttering more often than not these days, especially when it comes to the culinary “innovations” gracing our plates, our social media feeds, and, God forbid, our grocery store aisles. It seems every other day there’s a new food trend, a bizarre celebrity chef concoction, or a “reinvention” of a classic dish that makes me want to demand to speak to the manager of the entire food industry. Call me old-fashioned, call me a “Karen” if you must, but someone has to say it: enough is enough.
Let’s talk about the absolute audacity of some of these creations. Remember when a perfectly good donut was, well, a donut? Now, you can’t swing a rolling pin without hitting a cronut, a cruffin, or some other unholy hybrid that tries to be everything and ends up being nothing. And don’t even get me started on the toppings. Gold leaf? Seriously? Are we eating a dessert or raiding Fort Knox? I appreciate a good sprinkle as much as the next person, but when your donut costs more than my weekly coffee budget, we’ve got a problem. It’s not about elevating the experience; it’s about making something so outrageously overpriced and over-the-top that people feel compelled to photograph it for Instagram rather than actually, you know, eat it. And for what? So some influencer can get a few hundred likes while I’m left wondering if I accidentally swallowed a tiny piece of their diamond-encrusted napkin?
Then there’s the pervasive issue of avocado toast. Now, don’t get me wrong, I like an avocado. On a taco, in some guacamole with a generous serving of chips – classic, reliable, delicious. But turning it into a foundational breakfast item, smeared on a single piece of artisanal bread for a king’s ransom? And the millennial obsession with it! It’s not just a meal; it’s a personality trait. “Oh, I only eat avocado toast.” Meanwhile, I’m over here with my sensible oatmeal, wondering how a simple fruit became the cornerstone of an entire generation’s financial woes. “Why can’t millennials afford houses?” they ask. Maybe it’s all the $18 avocado toast, darling. Just a thought.
And what about the sheer pretense of “deconstructed” dishes? Call me simple, but when I order a lasagna, I expect a comforting, layered casserole, not a dollop of ricotta here, a streak of tomato sauce there, and a single, lonely pasta sheet artfully draped across the plate like a discarded dryer sheet. Is this a meal or a puzzle? Do I need an instruction manual to assemble my dinner? If I wanted to cook, I’d stay home. I go to a restaurant for the convenience, the flavor, and the fact that someone else is doing the dishes. Not to play culinary Jenga with my entrée. It’s pretentious, it’s impractical, and honestly, it just makes me feel like the chef thinks I’m too unsophisticated to appreciate a properly assembled meal.
Let’s pivot to the baffling world of celebrity food endorsements. Every B-list actor with a TikTok account suddenly fancies themselves a culinary expert, hawking everything from “artisanal” snack boxes to questionable diet shakes. And the fast-food collaborations! Travis Scott meals, BTS meals – what exactly are we celebrating here? A slightly rearranged burger and fries? A dipping sauce in a fancy package? It’s not about the food; it’s about the hype, the limited-edition packaging, and the desperate scramble to be part of something, even if that something is just a glorified Happy Meal for adults. It’s genius marketing, I’ll give them that, but it’s also a clear sign that we’ve lost our way when it comes to genuine culinary appreciation. We’re prioritizing fleeting trends over timeless taste.
And don’t even get me started on the plant-based “meat” alternatives that taste nothing like meat and everything like regret. I understand the desire for healthier, more sustainable options. I truly do. But when your “burger” crumbles into sad, tasteless dust with the first bite, and your “chicken nuggets” have the texture of a shoe sole, we need to re-evaluate. It’s one thing to offer a plant-based option; it’s another to try and trick me into thinking I’m eating something I’m not. Call it a veggie patty, call it a soy crumble, call it whatever you want, but don’t call it meat. My taste buds aren’t fooled that easily. And for the love of all that is holy, stop with the “bleeding” veggie burgers. It’s unsettling, unnecessary, and frankly, a bit gross.
The sheer volume of food “hacks” and “life-changing” recipes on social media is another source of my constant exasperation. Every other scroll brings a new way to dice an onion (newsflash: a knife works just fine), a “secret ingredient” that promises to revolutionize your scrambled eggs (it’s usually just more butter, darling), or a five-minute meal that takes closer to an hour and leaves your kitchen looking like a war zone. These aren’t hacks; they’re often overcomplicated solutions to non-existent problems, designed to get clicks rather than genuinely help people cook better. And the comments sections are a battlefield of people either praising these questionable methods as gospel or tearing them apart with the ferocity of a starved wolverine.
It all boils down to a fundamental question: have we forgotten the simple joy of good, honest food? Food that nourishes, that comforts, that brings people together without needing a filter or a viral hashtag. Food that doesn’t pretend to be something it’s not. Food that respects its ingredients and doesn’t subject them to ridiculous transformations just for shock value.
Perhaps I’m just an old soul in a world obsessed with the new, the next, the most outlandish. But when I see another rainbow-colored bagel, a charcoal-infused latte, or a “fusion” dish that looks like it barely survived a car crash, I can’t help but sigh. My advice? Stick to the classics. Learn to make a decent roast chicken. Master a hearty soup. Enjoy a perfectly ripe tomato. These are the culinary experiences that truly stand the test of time, not the fleeting, overhyped fads that leave you scratching your head and wondering, “Honestly, who approved this?”
So, the next time you’re faced with a menu item that sounds more like a science experiment than a meal, take a moment. Ask yourself: Is this truly delicious, or is it just designed to be photographed? Your taste buds (and your wallet) will thank you. And if all else fails, you can always come to my kitchen. I’ll make you a sensible meal, no gold leaf required.
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