This post is part of a series of reflections on the readings from the food learning group headed by Danielle (mysillylittletasks) on Instagram. Shoot her a DM if you’d like to join - everyone’s welcome :)
Mull's article, Instagram is a sad sparkly life, written in 2017, made me reflect on two things.
Firstly, the way I use social media - from the little things like the posts I’ve saved, to the accounts I follow.
Secondly, how the “food influencer scene” (to the extent that there is one) has changed over the last four years.
I was relatively ‘late’ to instagram. This was fuelled by a lot of things - laziness, a feeling that I’d ‘missed’ the trend, social medial fatigue, and a deeply rooted sense of embarrassment about anything that had to do with myself.
But as the links shared in the group chat increasingly redirected to the little grid, I was convenience won out in the end and I created an account.
I started by saving recipes, followed profiles from local restaurants, then workout videos.
In many ways, my own experience with instagram is accurately reflected in Mull’s article - the incessant obsession of glamorous food, in sharp filter-contrast glory and saturated to the max, followed by a quick 10-minute ab workout that promises results if you “stick to the 14 day shred”.
I’m definitely part of their target audience.
Mull talks about instagram food trends, defined by sugary treats and hamburgers so large that they’re impossible to fit into your mouth, lest you wish to dislocate your own jaw and spend the next few hours in ED.
But when I flick through my saved tab, I see a lot of the food that I'd like to eat. Sure, in high contrast and with flashy lights on a tablecloth that's cleaner than my table will ever be.
I see food that my grandmother used to make, crouched over her wok, steam carefully rising through her neatly permed curls. I see the dark syrupy chicken that my mum just referred to as "soy sauce chicken". I see the mismatch of dining room tables across the world, where a steak sits next to a bowl of rice and kimchi, just like the lazy meal I often pull together on weeknights.
Importantly, when I scroll down to the caption in the recipe, I learn the words for the “elephant soy sauce” mum used to ask me to buy from our local store.
Perhaps the food influence/ instagram scene has changed a bit since 2017.
Because the algorithm takes me from 红烧肉 to Taiwanese beef noodle soup - all dishes I’ve wanted to make, but thought I’d be barred from making due to my lack of fluency in Mandarin. It shows me the variations of ‘congee’ that don’t compromise on comfort. It takes me halfway across the world shows me how brie is made and introduces me to the intricate layers of burek.
During the Lunar New Year, my feed is dyed fiercely red and gold. I learn the word donabe. I am taught how to make chocolate crinkle chip cookies, no flour chocolate cakes, chocolate tarts and chocolate itself. It shows me how a national - no worldwide - obsession with caffeine ripples into a social-economic-political issue. It exposes me to the external, structural and economic forces that shape what I make for dinner - things from the union mandated 1 hour lunch period, to the consumer obsession with the air fryer.
Food has always been political.
But politics has never been welcome at the dinner table.
During the pandemic, the algorithm directs me to my local cafes, letting me know that a takeaway coffee is still available, but only until 2pm (no keep cups allowed). It shows me how to be innovative with the can of chickpeas that I’ve left in the back corner of my pantry. It gives me a method to click, donate and support local businesses.
Sure, it makes me sick of sourdough bread (I have had enough of your ‘ears’ and starter rants). I ache to dine outdoors. I swear that I’ll never complain about parking or lines or queues for restaurants again.
But it also connects me with people who share similar views about food. It exposes me to people who challenge me to question my own consumer habits.
Importantly, it leads me to discover people who write passionately about food. People who talk about food, and eating out and cooking and weave it into stories about ourselves, our identities and our vulnerabilities.
People like jjoongieeats and the authors featured in diversityinfoodmedia.au whose pieces I read and just go fuck I want to write like that or yes that’s exactly how I feel about that and make me feel seen. I love publications that democratise food writing - zines like kitchensink.zine, rootedzine, whatsfordinnerzine as well as those like chineseprotest recipes (by thegodofcookery) that remind me that food is political.
It’s pushed me to learn more about food. Aside from teaching me how to cook dishes, it has pushed me to research the history behind certain dishes and identify the powers and forces that shape and define food habits. What makes a dish popular? Why does everyone suddenly want to bake sourdough and fry scallion pancakes overnight? Why are people concerned about eating refrigerated rice?
It’s helped me to do so by introducing me to a community who want to share their thoughts on food - and who aren’t afraid of sharing their mistakes or their resources.
And for that, I am grateful.
Because maybe, maybe that’ll just have to do for now - or at least until I can have people around my dinner table.