Anyone who knows me personally knows that one of my greatest passions in life is good food. Legend has it, in fact, that like some sort of modern-adaptation gender-swapped Demeter, I emerged from the womb with a cornucopia in one hand and a pumpkin spice latte in the other. Bearing that in mind, watching fine meals go to waste is, understandably, a sore point.
I’ve fasted for Ramadan since the seventh grade, and grown up with my parents’ stories of working to escape poverty in a new country. I’ve undergone serious emotional upheavals due to Pretty Little Liars’ sharp decline in quality with little besides cinnamon swirl coffee cakes and green tea frappuccinos to comfort me. Those experiences have shaped me into a particularly vicious defender of the rights of all that is delicious.
The social etiquette engineered by a patriarchy that seeks to drive every single one of us to regret eating that extra cherry pie has silenced my blazing desire for justice on myriad occasions. I’ve seen close friends of mine drop Tim Hortons goods and chuck them away despite no actual food-floor contact having been made. On a field trip to the Chamber of Commerce to watch yet another politician wax lyrical about what they want us to believe are the “real issues,” I noted numerous unrepentant one-percenters abandoning plates of New York cheesecake because the colour contrasted with their perfectly sculpted buns and made for a suboptimal Instagram #foodporn post.
Look, I won’t bring the starving residents of developing countries into this. In fact, I have far too much respect for their daily struggles to so much as speak of them in the same sentence as the sycophants of extremist cuisine capitalism whom I criticize. But I ask those of you who can afford to spend $50+ at The Keg and trash half your dessert to at minimum consider the feelings of the petit bourgeois who settle for Superstore’s trusty tubs of heavenly hash ice cream.
That iced capp you just clumsily fumbled? Not one bit of it kissed dirt, you cotton-headed ninny-muggin. If it was good enough for you when you bought it, it’s still good enough for you now! Your “ending is better than mending” attitude is the reason we’re probably all doomed to an artless dystopia of social castes and hallucinogen addictions.
If you mean to forsake everything that you drop out of some bizarre scruples, then by God, start with that course you decided to take in a later semester (I promise you round two is probably not going to be any better), or that stale top 40 mixtape of which you’re probably so proud. And you know what? I bet Drake, Sia, and Selena Gomez all finish every last bite of their dishes and tip well to boot.
Alternatively, find some goddamn coordination if it helps you sleep peacefully. I understand the three-second rule doesn’t work for every scenario, but at least try to develop the grace, balance, and elegance necessary to cherish the spoils of your labour. Tell yourself that you deserve better than wasted, uneaten Twinkies.
With sincere love, and hope and confidence in my heart that you’ll change for the better,
A morally infuriated social crustice warrior,