Why I Won't Apologize for Food Pics

To some, snapping photos of your food before you eat it is annoying and self-absorbed. To others, it’s second nature. But to me, this habit hints at the deeper connection between meals, memory, and meaning.

“Don’t take a bite yet!” If you’re a millennial – or spend a lot of time with them – you’ve probably heard this phrase a thousand times. It’s usually accompanied by a reflexive reach for a smartphone, and followed by a frenzied photoshoot.

Your less photogenic belongings are pushed out of the frame as the photographer snaps pics from above and each side, looking for ideal lighting. A few seconds later, you’re permitted to pick up the fork.

Or maybe you, like me, are the one taking the photos, feeling guilty for delaying the meal but unable to supress that urge to capture the moment on your camera reel. Then again, maybe you don’t feel guilty at all; maybe you unapologetically photograph everything you eat, and your friends and family have come to accept this uniquely 21st-century trait.

I’ve apologized countless times for this habit. I’ve always been slightly ashamed of it, and I’d never do it in the presence of new friends, or say, on a first date. There’s something that feels superficial and selfish about forcing everyone to wait to actually enjoy the food until you’ve got it on camera.

It feels like taking photos of fireworks, or the moon, or videos of a live concert; they’re never going to be as good as the real thing. And by filtering reality through your phone, you’re missing out on the actual experience.

But recently I had a revelation. I decided that I’m done feeling bad about food photos, because they’re much more than a compulsive and cliche habit.

Why do we take photos of anything at all? What’s the purpose of pressing everyone shoulder to shoulder and making them smile until their jaws ache? What’s the point of snapping stunning vistas on vacation or blurry portraits of your drunk friends at four in the morning?

These kinds of photos – the everyday ones, the ones we don’t sell for money or print in magazines – are a personal collection of the moments we want to remember. They’re an attempt to immortalize particular points in time, so that whenever you stumble across them you’re instantly transported back.

They represent our best effort to keep from forgetting – not only the big milestones and life-changing experiences, but also the little things that bring joy, or laughter, or wonder to our daily existence.

For me, that’s the purpose of food photos. Like the majority of modern humans, I really love food. I like talking about it, thinking about it, planning future meals, and yes, reminiscing on past ones.

Pulling out my phone at the table is a reflection of that appreciation – but also of the desire to preserve a particular moment. Sometimes the meal in front of me is extraordinary, but most of the time it’s not really the point; it’s an anchor for the experience. I want to remember not only how that meal looked and tasted, but who I was with, where I was, or how I was feeling when I ate it.

I take photos of fancy desserts and dirt-cheap street food. I take photos of airplane dinners and açaí bowls. I take photos of meals lovingly made for me by someone else, and of meals that I lovingly make for myself.

In 2020, I took a lot of photos of banana bread, homemade falafel, snack boards, and other culinary projects that I chose, executed, and consumed entirely alone. Yes, I shared many of them on my Instagram stories. No, I am not sorry.

I can imagine all you food-photo skeptics thinking, “Okay, go ahead and capture your memories, or whatever, but don’t post them on social media; no one cares.” But this line of thinking is far more egocentric than the supposedly self-absorbed practice of taking the pics in the first place.

What you really mean is that you don’t care. And that’s fine – unfollow me. But there are plenty of people out there who like glimpsing a little piece of someone else’s life through their food. Who are inspired by a photo of a friend’s epic kitchen experiment, or entertained by a video of someone icing a cake.

Those people do care. And more importantly, I care. There’s a misconception that everything you post on social media is meant exclusively for the eyes of others. But haven’t you ever found yourself scrolling through your own Instagram feed?

This isn’t self-obsessed or arrogant. Every time you post a photo, you’re adding a piece to a tangible record of your life. You’re choosing not only how you want other people to see you, but also how you want to remember yourself.

So if you want to fill your feed with blurry photos of weeknight dinners, go for it. If you’d rather post photos of extravagant brunches or artfully framed ice cream cones, more power to you. And if you believe that food pics should never be publicly shared, or even taken in the first place, that’s fine – but please don’t make other people feel bad for their choices.

You can wait a few seconds to take your first bite, if it means giving a friend the chance to immortalize a moment that matters to them. And if it takes more than a few seconds, I would venture to say that you’re allowed to start eating (at least when I’m behind the lens).

After all, I’m also a big fan of the half-eaten-food pic, the sauce-dribbling-down-your-face food pic, and of course the grinning-with-your-mouth-full food pic. Many of my best food-related memories are messy, and I want my photos to reflect that reality, too.

So go ahead and take a bite – and if I take a photo, remember that it’s because I’m just happy to be here, with you, eating and enjoying one of life’s best and simplest pleasures. You don’t even have to say “cheese.”

This article was originally published on Medium. You can view the original post here.