Lost in the Aisles

How We Forgot What Real Food Tastes Like

I love food. I love cooking. At least, I used to. But lately, I feel like I’ve lost my way. My relationship with food feels… complicated. Not just me—my waistline agrees. My kitchen mojo is on life support, and the idea of making something from scratch feels almost mythical, like some ancient art form practiced only by monks in remote mountain temples.

Growing up, food was different. Going to a restaurant was a ceremony, an occasion. In Lithuania, my family would go out to eat maybe once a year—on the first day of school. A day worth dressing up for. Plates were brought to the table like treasures, flavors felt intense, every bite carried intention. Today? Eating out is so routine it’s practically background noise. A limp salad in a plastic box, a reheated pasta dish that tastes like cardboard nostalgia.

Cooking at home? Sure, I still cook. But let’s be honest: is boiling frozen dumplings considered “making dinner from scratch”? Because if so, then congratulations, I’m practically a Michelin-star chef. And Grandma’s chicken soup? It now belongs to the same realm as handwritten letters and phone calls that last hours—a relic from a different time.

So… How Did We Get Here?

Somewhere along the way, food stopped being food. It started being content. Packaged, processed, shrink-wrapped. The aisles of most grocery stores are now a museum of chemicals I can’t pronounce. Rows and rows of “food-like products” with bright labels screaming ‘natural’ and ‘healthy’. Did you know that 95% of products on grocery shelves are processed? The irony is that you can now buy “artisanal, handcrafted frozen pizza”—a concept that makes my brain short-circuit.

It’s not just about the food itself, though—it’s cultural. In Italy, for example, the bar for food quality is so high it might as well be orbiting Mars. Families cook. Recipes are passed down like sacred texts. A mediocre restaurant won’t survive in a town where every grandma can whip up a flawless ragù alla Bolognese. Here in California, though, the bar is… well, there is no bar. Frozen food at home means even bad restaurant food feels like an upgrade. And so the cycle continues.

But here’s the kicker: we can’t entirely blame ourselves. Convenience is the new luxury. We’ve built lives where time feels scarce, attention is fragmented, and dinner is often squeezed between emails and bedtime routines. Who has time to simmer broth for eight hours when there’s a microwave shortcut that promises ‘almost homemade’ in three minutes?

A Glimpse of Hope

But let’s not romanticize the past too much. Nostalgia is tricky—it often tastes better in our memories. The truth is, there’s a quiet rebellion happening in kitchens and communities everywhere. People are starting to ask questions: Where does my food come from? Who grew this tomato? Why does this apple taste like sadness?

Farmers’ markets are thriving. Sour dough starters are becoming family members. Even big cities are seeing micro-farms sprouting up on rooftops. There’s hope here. There’s energy.

And maybe that’s where we begin: with intention. With slowing down, just enough to taste our food again. Cooking doesn’t have to mean elaborate meals with 17 ingredients. Sometimes, it’s just slicing fresh bread, layering on ripe tomatoes, and finishing with olive oil that actually tastes like olives.

A Small Invitation

I’m challenging myself to cook one meal this week. Like, really cook. No shortcuts, no microwaves, no pre-cut veggies in a bag. Just me, some fresh ingredients, and a wooden spoon. If you feel like joining me, let’s share stories. Tell me what you made, how it felt, and if your mojo crept back into the kitchen.

Because maybe—just maybe—real food isn’t lost. It’s just waiting patiently for us to come back to it.

Bon appétit. Or, as Grandma would say, „Skanaus.“