My Food Seems To Be Very Cute (And I’m Not Sorry About It)

Making my food cute isn’t about being childish. It’s an act of gentle rebellion.

I didn’t eat it. I laughed. I took a picture. And then, a strange thing happened: I felt better.

And just like that, the rice was staring back at me.

I was making onigiri for a sad desk lunch on a Tuesday. The rice was too sticky, the nori was wilting, and my general mood was hovering somewhere between “meh” and “why am I like this.” On a whim, I cut a tiny strip of seaweed into a smile. I pressed a leftover edamame bean into the center of the rice ball.

It started, as most things do, with a tiny pair of googly eyes.

If you had told my 18-year-old self—who believed that “real chefs” don’t play with their food—that I would be packing bento boxes shaped like sleeping bears, she would have rolled her eyes so hard she’d have sprained something.

I’m not suggesting you need a drawer full of specialized punches and tweezers. I own exactly three tools: a pair of kitchen shears, a toothpick, and a set of round nori punches that came free with a magazine in 2019.

Is it also the most peaceful I’ve felt all week? Also absolutely.

It’s looking at a chaotic Tuesday and saying, “No. Today, my broccoli will have rosy cheeks.”

— Bon appétit, cuties. 🍙🥦 Drop a comment below: What’s the cutest meal you’ve ever made? I’ll go first—a potato that looked suspiciously like a sleeping kitten. I named him Spud.

The world is loud and sharp and heavy. Your dinner doesn’t have to be.

Give your smoothie bowl a face. Arrange your grapes into a smile. Let your sandwich have hair made of carrot shavings.