Most days, sometimes twice a day, I ordered food delivery. Even though whatever I ordered, whether greasy, lukewarm fast food or a favorite $18 kale caesar salad, rarely felt worth it, and almost always made me feel varying degrees of shame.
At least whenever I had a partner, we could carry the burden together, divvying up grocery trips, recipe ideation, the actual food prep bit, and washing up afterward (as much as we might bicker about it all).
Food delivery apps are not merely changing how we eat; they are reshaping our relationship to labor, money, and our capacity to care for ourselves.
Delivery did not need Silicon Valley “disruption.” Like rideshare apps and taxis, delivery apps leveraged Venture Capital to create a marginally more convenient service where one already existed. In the process, delivery apps shifted consumer behavior and undermined a longstanding and once-sustainable business model.
How often have you used a food delivery app only to wait longer for your order than it would have taken you to walk, drive, or take public transport to the restaurant and back? How often has your order arrived cold, or with missing items, or squashed, or spilled, or otherwise ruined? And how often—even if you’ve been delivered the right order, at the right temperature, relatively intact—have you looked at the seemingly ever-growing “service” fees tacked onto your bill (almost all of which go back to corporate, not the human beings who made your food or delivered it to you) and thought: Yeah, this was definitely worth it?
But many well-intended people keep using these apps because they’ve been so thoroughly normalized. Because they’re easy. Worse than easy: mindless.
If I were still living in the same circumstances, with the same salary, I might never have quit food delivery, not to mention my other addictions. It took me losing my job, moving to the U.K., and starting over at a new industry to face the fact that paying more than £20 after ever-rising fees for a fast food burger and fries is, frankly, absurd.
I think we all need to be—as The Cut put it earlier this year—friction-maxxing, by rejecting the escapism of predictive algorithms and single-tap commands. Nothing less than our collective humanity is at stake.
“We’re surrounded by tools, gadgets, apps, and schemes that claim to save us from needless effort and undue stress,” he writes in the book’s introduction. “If our so-called conveniences do save time, money, or energy, the savings are short-lived, while the costs linger. These costs are paid in dollars and in the degradation of daily life.”
It took financial necessity to force me to get creative in these moments, and it turns out, even when I’m tired and cranky and can’t be bothered to make anything elaborate, not every meal needs to be some big, fancy, crazy-delicious production; all it needs to be is wholesome and filling.
I wouldn’t necessarily say I’ve been converted into a full-on cooking enjoyer; there are still plenty of days when I look in the fridge and groan. But I have grown to appreciate cooking so much more: the meditative aspect of putting on some music and getting into flow state while chopping garlic and onions, the satisfaction of making something with my own two hands.
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