I remember the days when life wasn’t a scavenger hunt through a grocery aisle of high-protein facsimiles. Back then, things had names you could trust. Butter was butter. Bread was bread. A tomato didn’t need a curriculum vitae of soil origins to taste like a tomato. People didn’t pore over nutrition labels like they were deciphering the Rosetta Stone; they just ate, for God’s sake, and lived to tell the tale.

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This is the soul of it, isn’t it? Back then, cooking was more instinct than instruction—a simple, satisfying ritual of taking good ingredients and turning them into something magical. You didn’t need a spreadsheet to plan a meal or a chemistry set to cook it. It was about trust—trust in the butter sizzling in the pan, in the tomatoes ripened by the sun, in your own two hands knowing what to do next. You didn’t need a degree in biochemistry to roast a chicken, and no one cared whether your dinner had the carbon footprint of a mid-sized sedan.

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Back then, food wasn’t a moral high ground; it was a feast. You didn’t have to apologize for the way it tasted, or the way it made you feel—happy, full, alive. We weren’t burdened with the anxiety of making every bite a testament to our virtue. We ate, we laughed, and for a few minutes, the world made sense.

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I remember the days when we understood that traditions weren’t chains, but ropes—anchors to the past, tying us to the wisdom of people who figured out how to make life bearable long before we came along. It wasn’t quaint to sit around a table together; it was human. It was normal. We laughed. We argued. We passed around bowls filled with carbs, wine, and love in equal measure. And no one asked if it was gluten-free.

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But now? Now we’re asked to pledge allegiance to the cult of innovation, as if reinventing the wheel—or worse, the pizza crust—is some kind of moral imperative. “Progress,” they call it. As if rebranding deprivation as discipline is the hallmark of a higher civilization. Almond milk? Zucchini noodles? Cauliflower crust? These aren’t foods—they’re threats. Threats to joy. Threats to comfort. Threats to the long and glorious legacy of people who figured out, centuries ago, that life tastes better with a little salt.

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I remember the days when happiness wasn’t something you outsourced to a self-help podcast. We knew where to find it. It was in the smell of a sauce that had been simmering for hours, the sound the beer makes when you crack it like you meant it,  that brief silence of admiration as everyone raises their glasses in a toast , the first forkful of something so simple and so perfect that you closed your eyes and thought, Best I ever had.

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These days, we’re told to trade that simplicity for the shiny new shackles of modern living. Eat this, not that. Work harder, longer, leaner. Run the race until you collapse in your organic bamboo sheets and dream of one day earning enough for a kitchen island and an air fryer. But here’s the thing about races: you can’t win one you don’t even need to run.

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I remember the days when the best things in life weren’t complicated. When you asked a question, and got a straight answer; when contradiction wasn’t everywhere you looked. They didn’t have to label everything with moronic disclaimers, or inundate you with subscriptions and How-To’s. They came from a soil older than memory, a culture richer than cash, and hands that understood the worth of patience. The joy of repetition. The sacred act of passing something good—something enduring—on to the next generation.

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And so, here we are. The past wasn’t perfect—God knows that. But it wasn’t stupid either. The folks who came before us, the ones who built hearths and harvested wheat and figured out how to turn eggs into miracles—they knew a thing or two about what really matters. Maybe instead of criticizing, customizing, substituting, and optimizing every little thing, we ought to honor those little things. Celebrate the monotony and stop trying to reinvent the wheel... Parm is good as is. 

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I remember just yesterday I was reminded of how great everything really is just because I got the sauce right. The trick, then as it is now, is not to make something new—but to admire what is. I speak for myself and welcome all to my table but, for the love of all holy things, will you please STOP VILLAIN-IZING PASTA.

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–S.V.P.