On the Fear of Sharing What I Cook

I made a yogurt bowl this morning. Greek yogurt, berries, honey, some granola. The light was good. It looked pretty in that accidental way things sometimes do. I held my phone over it for a second and then put it back down.

I ate the yogurt. It was good. I told no one I'd made it.

Which is absurd, right? It's yogurt and fruit. A five-minute assembly, not even cooking. But that hesitation was real and similar to the hesitation I experience when I've actually spent an hour on something, when I've tried a new technique and it worked.

That gap between private satisfaction and any public acknowledgment of it. I've been trying to figure out what lives in that gap.

Brillat-Savarin wrote in 1825 that "Tell me what you eat, and I'll tell you what you are." He meant it sociologically, maybe anthropologically. But it lands personally. When we share food (even just a photo of food) we're revealing our aesthetic judgment, our idea of what constitutes "good," our morning rituals, the fact that we did or didn't have fresh fruit or could or couldn't afford the expensive organic granola.

Taste is learned. Neuroscientists have shown this: flavour preferences build through exposure, through childhood, through culture. My yogurt bowl looks like my mornings growing up after becoming a mom. Something quick, something I could be proud of without much effort. To photograph it and post it is to say: this is what I think is worth your time to look at. This is my standard for pretty, for good-enough, for share-worthy.

What if you don't agree?

Instagram didn't invent food photography but it professionalised the amateur's kitchen in a way that changed something fundamental. I scroll through feeds where every breakfast looks art-directed. The bowl is ceramic and handmade. The berries are arranged with that precision that might take me ten minutes to get right. The yogurt is Greek and full-fat and from a farmer's market, and you can tell because the caption says so, but casually, like it's not a flex.

My yogurt is from NTUC Fairprice. My bowl is from Daiso, eleven years old. The berries are occasionally frozen because I'm not going to the store every two days.

I'm comparing my Wednesday morning to someone's Sunday best, and I know this is the trap. Social comparison theory tells us we do this constantly. That we assess ourselves against others, and when those others are curated highlight reels, we're assessing against an impossible standard.

But knowing this doesn't stop the feeling: maybe my version isn't worth sharing. Maybe it's too ordinary. Maybe I'll look like I'm trying too hard by suggesting this simple thing is special. Or not trying hard enough because it's not elevated, not interesting, not the expensive granola.

Susan Sontag said photographing is a way of refusing experience, of putting glass between yourself and the world. With food it's stranger: you're trying to capture something that only exists in the eating, in the taste and texture and the particular hunger you brought to it. The photo flattens it. The yogurt in the picture is just potential, not satisfaction. Only I know if it was actually good.

There's something else, harder to name. We were told this was love. That we proved care through feeding, through the invisible labour of keeping people nourished. So it had to be done well, but couldn't be bragged about. Had to look effortless. Had to be both perfect and not worth mentioning.

When I hesitate to share my yogurt bowl, I'm navigating this without fully thinking about it. Is posting it performing? Being precious about something simple? Seeking praise for the basic work of feeding myself? The fear isn't really about the yogurt. It's about being judged on how well I'm doing the labour that was supposed to come naturally.

I'm not a chef. I don't have training. I can't name the five mother sauces and I had to Google how to properly dice an onion last year. I'm an amateur. From the Latin amator: lover. Someone who does something for love of it.

When did amateur become an insult?

Professional cooking has its place. The technique, the precision, the knowledge of why things work. I'm grateful for it. But somewhere we started treating professional standards as the only standards. The right way to plate. The proper ratio of yogurt to toppings. The ‘correct’ granola.

Impostor syndrome is about permission. It's the feeling that you're faking what others do authentically. But who gave authority over yogurt bowls? Who decided you need credentials to say: I made this thing I like?

I think the professionalisation of food culture (the blogs, the classes, the specialised equipment)has given us access to knowledge, which is good. But it's also made us feel like impostors in our own kitchens. Like posting a simple breakfast is claiming expertise we don't have.

But I'm not claiming expertise. I'm just saying: this tasted good. I liked how it looked. That used to be enough.

Humans have always shared food. Anthropologists say it's definitional. The communal meal builds trust, turns strangers into guests, marks us as different from other primates who mostly eat alone.

Breaking bread meant peace. Hospitality was sacred. To offer food was vulnerable. I made this, I hope it's good. And to accept it was to accept that vulnerability. To say: I trust this.

There's even biology: shared meals trigger oxytocin. Eating together makes us like each other more, literally chemically.

But we're losing this, maybe. When I don't share the yogurt bowl, when I don't extend the invitation to breakfast, when I keep the small satisfactions private, I'm protecting myself from judgment. But I'm also withholding something. The gift economy of feeding each other is ancient. We evolved doing this.

What replaces it? Restaurant brunches, professionally prepared. Someone else's labour, someone else's standards. Nothing wrong with that. I love it too. But something shifts when we stop making things for each other.

The amateur meal is simple, made with what you have, maybe the berries are frozen. It says: I spent five minutes on this. I thought you might like to see it. It's not much but it's mine.

When we stop making these small offerings, we lose a particular kind of intimacy.

Maybe the answer is treating food like we're learning to treat other creative attempts: as rough drafts, works in progress, things that don't have to be perfect to be worth sharing.

People post early writing now. Amateur art. First attempts at instruments. There's a culture of showing your work, embracing the beginner's mind, saying "still learning but here's where I am."

Why not breakfast?

What if I shared the yogurt bowl and said: I liked how this turned out. What if good enough was actually enough? What if amateur lover was reclaimed as the whole point, not a consolation prize?

Professional chefs cook for craft, for commerce, for the rush of service. Home cooks, amateur cooks, cook because it's Wednesday and we're hungry and maybe we'll try the fresh fruit or maybe we'll just use frozen because that's what we have.

Both are valid. Both are cooking. The home version doesn't need professional approval to matter.

I'm standing in my kitchen again tomorrow morning. There will be yogurt, probably berries, definitely honey. It will look nice or it won't. I might photograph it.

The hesitation will probably still be there. That small moment of wondering if it's worth sharing, if it's good enough, if anyone cares about someone else's breakfast.

But I'm trying to see that hesitation differently now. Fisher wrote that sharing food is intimate and shouldn't be done lightly. She meant it as caution but maybe it's permission. Yes, it's intimate. Yes, it's vulnerable. That's not a reason to hide it; that's the whole reason it matters.

So maybe tomorrow I'll take the photo. Or maybe I'll just eat the yogurt and feel good about it and that will be enough too. But I want to stop pretending the hesitation is about the food.

It's about being seen trying. Being seen caring about small things. Being seen as someone who thinks a frozen berry yogurt bowl on a Wednesday is worth five minutes of attention.

Maybe it is. Maybe being someone who notices when something simple turns out nice. Of marking the good moments. Of saying, even just to yourself: this was nice.

The yogurt was good. Tomorrow, maybe I'll say so.