Zero Waste, Infinite Guilt

Somewhere between the compost bin and the tasting menu, virtue became another course. Chefs weigh scraps like sins, recite sustainability pledges between plating and press interviews. Diners nod, absolved. The food may be delicious, but the air is heavy with confession.

Zero waste used to mean efficiency; now it means theatre. Onion skins dehydrated into dust, carrot tops turned into moral garnish. Every offcut reborn, every guilt repurposed. The promise is noble, but the feeling is strange—meals that feed the conscience more than the appetite.

In chasing purity, the joy has thinned. The kitchen used to hum with creation; now it flinches at excess. Maybe the point isn’t to waste nothing. Maybe it’s to remember what generosity tasted like, before we started counting crumbs.