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I’ve been following this universe for as long as Jennifer Garner has been having yoghurt, nuts and berries for breakfast (a long time), and have seen it all.
From the kooky – Kate Hudson swearing by a high-alkaline diet, to the aspirational – Martha Stewart keeping truffles on hand like chicken salt. The depressing – Tyra Banks hollowing out bagels to reduce carbs, and the predictable – it’s Gwyneth Paltrow buying the $20 Erewhon smoothie.
Most of the time, this content is as blandly palatable as the overcooked zucchinis Meghan, Duchess of Sussex insists count as pasta sauce. But recently, my stomach has started to turn. I’ve been asking myself the most dangerous question anyone online can ask: What am I doing here?
The simple truth is that Buffalo Bill shared his taste for prairie dog for the same reason Channing Tatum says he puts Cheetos on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches; we are fascinated by what interesting people are doing. We peer into their lives looking for ways to reach them.
No one cares what I have for breakfast because I am not T-Pain (who eats eggs and sausage). But it’s tempting to believe that the only thing separating me and Miranda Kerr isn’t perfect genetics and a billionaire partner, but merely the organic lemon water she drinks each morning.
Incredibly, the irrationality of this delusion isn’t actually what started to turn me off. It was the fact that while the platforms, subject and ingredients might change, all this content takes food – life’s greatest pleasure – and makes it feel like work.
Sometimes the effort is obvious. A gym rat obsessed over macros. An influencer dangerously restricting their diet as wedding prep. A breastfeeding mum trying to keep her milk flowing while losing the baby weight. You don’t need to be a therapist to spot the constant shadow of toxic diet culture.
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But even the more “relatable” menus feel like a performance. I like Awkwafina, but I’m not sure I believe she eats a whole pot roast at 7am. Similarly, Jennifer Lawrence is charming. But listening to her describe eating spaghetti sandwiched between pizza slices is exhausting. These women might not be labouring to control their bodies, but they are using food to control their appearance.
My discomfort isn’t isolated. Recently, waves of content creators have usurped the trend to showcase different kinds of lives. Sometimes this is entertaining or educational – Nigerian students sharing tips for eating on a budget or Americans celebrating food adventures in their adopted overseas homes.
Other times, they turn the culture against itself. Purposely showing realistic habits, addressing issues of financial hardship or being transparent about the spectra of disordered eating. In their hands, or phones, the message is less about control. They’re ambitious in asking the viewer to consider how topics like class, money, power and privilege are represented in what we eat.
Still, I wonder, wouldn’t it be nice if we just didn’t have to think about this at all? If our algorithms didn’t know we were hungry for this endless documentation and dissection? Wouldn’t it just be nice to eat whatever we felt like and never feel the impulse to share it at all?
Wendy Syfret is a freelance writer based in Melbourne.
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