Social media has become a major part of our everyday lives—whether we want it to or not. For the first time in history, we can connect with millions of people across the world without ever meeting. We share photos, post videos, follow trends, and do viral dances. For some, it’s even a career.
Social media has reshaped how we see each other—and, perhaps more importantly, how we see ourselves. That’s especially true when it comes to food. Food trends have always existed, but the way they move and evolve has changed. With a quick snap or video, anything you cook can be seen by thousands, almost instantly. On the surface, that seems like a good thing. Food is meant to be shared, after all. But here’s the problem: food is no longer shaped by taste, experience, or care. It’s shaped by likes and clicks. It has to be pretty. It has to perform.
What we’re left with is food that looks perfect on screen but often lacks soul. We no longer connect over a shared table—we connect through curated posts.
That’s not to say food influencers aren’t important. Many introduce us to dishes, cuisines, and techniques we might never have discovered otherwise. In the same way TV chefs once shaped how we cook, influencers carry the torch. But with endless content at our fingertips, it’s easy to get lost in the performance—and forget the point.
Food is supposed to nourish. To comfort. To connect. But increasingly, it feels like edible décor—crafted to be photographed, not remembered. Maybe it’s time we de-influence ourselves from the pressure to make food look perfect, and focus instead on how it makes us feel.
To be clear, I’m not arguing that food on social media is inedible. A beautifully plated dish can still taste incredible. But when we become obsessed with presentation—whether we’re chasing likes or admiring others’ creations—we risk losing the connection that makes food so meaningful in the first place.
So here’s a thought: put down the phone. Don’t worry if your dish isn’t picture-perfect. Cook something that feels true. Something imperfect, messy, maybe even a little ugly. The kind of meal you make for yourself or the people you care about. Not the internet.
As a former chef, I’ve learned this the hard way. I used to obsess over plating, testing multiple versions of a dish just to get it “right.” If you scroll through my Instagram, you’ll see some of those early iterations—dishes I styled for the camera. One in particular comes to mind: an olive oil and basil cake with basil ice cream, basil oil, and a basil and lemon crème anglaise. It looks beautiful in photos, but to recreate it at home would be impractical. Its beauty is a kind of fabrication. The picture doesn’t show the hours of testing, the small mistakes, or the process of learning.
And that’s the point. Cooking isn’t just about the final plate—it’s about the process. The trial and error. The quiet moments in the kitchen when you forget to take a picture at all. That’s why, these days, I rarely post my food. Not because I don’t love to cook, but because I want to cook freely. Without the weight of foodtok or the pressure of the perfect post.
I’m not saying you should stop sharing your food. Post your meals if it brings you joy. But remember: the heart of cooking isn’t in the perfect shot. It’s in the messy plate you share with friends. The recipe you burn the first time. The sauce that drips down your chin. The meal that makes you feel full in every sense of the word.
That’s the food worth remembering.
Because the meals aren’t made for the camera—they’re not the ones we post—they’re made for ourselves, and the people sitting across the table.
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