Alright, I'm just gonna say it: I don't like food. Not in that "I hate eating" way. I eat. I'm alive. I'm just not obsessed with it like everyone else seems to be. I don't daydream about dinner. I don't scroll food porn on Instagram. I don't "live to eat." I eat to not die. That's about it.

But what really gets me—what makes me roll my eyes so hard I almost black out—is how many people claim they "love food." Love it! Can't stop talking about it, cooking it, taking pictures of it. They're in love with food. And then… they do everything they possibly can to change it.

"Oh, I love vegetables!" they say—while dumping them in garlic butter, roasting them for an hour, and drowning them in balsamic glaze like they're trying to cover up a crime scene. They "love" fish, but only if it's buried under lemon, herbs, aioli, and a pile of panko breadcrumbs. They "love" steak, but only if it's medium rare, reverse-seared, aged 60 days, rubbed with their grandma's secret spice blend, and kissed by an angel on the grill.

Tell me again how you love food? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you tolerate food—once you've performed enough culinary surgery on it to make it taste like something else entirely.

Me? I'm picky. I know it. I embrace it. If I like it, I'll eat it. If I don't, I'm not gonna force it. I'm not gonna whip out a blowtorch and molecular foam kit just to convince myself that mushrooms are okay. They're not. They're gross. End of story.

I don't want to turn my food into something it's not. If it sucks, it sucks. If it's good, I'll eat it exactly how it is. I'm not here to dress it up, take it on a date, and lie to myself. Some things are tolerable. Most things aren't. I have my handful of go-to meals, and I stick to them. Boring? Maybe. But honest? Absolutely.

This is what I call the Food Paradox: The more people say they love food, the more they do to avoid actually tasting it.

It's like they're apologizing for the food's natural flavor. "I love you, potato, but I just need to slice you, oil you, bake you, mash you, salt you, and maybe add cheese to truly enjoy your company." That's not love. That's Stockholm syndrome with extra seasoning.

Look, I get it—cooking is culture, creativity, whatever. I'm not trying to cancel your grandma's lasagna. I'm just saying let's be real about what we're doing here. We're not in love with food. We're in love with flavor manipulation.

And hey, that's fine. Go be a kitchen wizard. Knock yourself out with your saffron threads and smoke guns. But don't look at me sideways because I'm eating plain pasta for the fourth night in a row. At least I'm not lying about it.

I eat what I can stand. I don't mess with it. I don't pretend it's a spiritual experience. And I sure as hell don't lie to a tomato about how much I love it while deep-frying it into oblivion. So yeah, maybe I don't "love" food. But at least I respect it enough to leave it alone.