by Erika Matic, probably chewing on a protein brownie while writing this
There is a particular look my husband gives me when he sees me watching an Instagram reel of someone mixing one whole apple, egg, and cocoa into something called “Healthy Lava Cake.” It’s the same look archaeologists give tourists who insist on touching the ancient ruins.
A blend of horror, confusion, and the faint, exhausted whisper of: Why?
To be fair, he doesn’t use social media. He doesn’t like social media. He doesn’t even understand social media. His natural habitat is a world where recipes come from people who preheat ovens instead of filming themselves doing it in hyper-speed. He believes in “proper recipes,” the kind made by YouTube chefs who speak in chapters, or food bloggers who write 3,000 words on the emotional history of cinnamon before letting you see the ingredient list.
Meanwhile, I live in a world where dessert can be “high-protein,” “five-ingredient,” and “ready in 12 seconds.” A world where a fitness influencer says “healthy treat” and I say “say no more.” A world where sometimes my creations turn out amazing, and sometimes they taste like regret held together by chia seeds.
But that’s the thrill.
He calls Instagram recipes “utter crap.” I call them “experiments that occasionally require mouth courage.”
He says I should get my recipes from “real creators” – you know, the ones who treat cooking like an academic thesis. I say he needs to stop pretending he’s the Michelin Guide for desserts he doesn’t even eat.
Here’s the part he absolutely cannot comprehend:
I’m the only one eating them.
There is no victim here.
Except possibly me, when I attempt a “two-ingredient brownie” and discover, too late, that neither ingredient should ever have been near a brownie.
The Great Social Media Culinary Divide
My husband believes Instagram food exists purely to deceive innocent civilians. That reels are basically digital sirens luring women into protein powder shipwrecks.
He’ll watch me zest a lemon over a bowl of goo that looks like something a toddler would throw at a wall and ask, with sincere concern:
“Does this… taste good?”
Which is adorable, because the truth is:
I don’t know yet, Vedrane. That’s the whole sport.
Instagram recipes are the roulette of the kitchen. Sometimes you win a life-changing protein brownie recipe. Sometimes you get a damp sponge with delusions of grandeur.
But to him, the unpredictability is unacceptable. He believes cooking should be guided by someone with lighting equipment and a 45-minute tutorial titled “The Molecular Science of Moisture in Cakes.”
Instagram thinks you can bake a cake in an air fryer using nothing but hope and whey powder.
We are not the same.
The “Real Recipes” Intervention
He recently suggested, gently but firmly, that I should try following “more serious recipes.” Not from grandmas. Not from dusty cookbooks. From long-form content creators who explain gluten formation with the passion of a man confessing a crime.
“You should try something more advanced,” he says.
Which is cute, because he doesn’t understand the joy. The enthusiasm. The reckless optimism of watching a stranger form a dough out of skyr and faith.
He doesn’t understand that even when it’s bad, it’s fun.
He doesn’t understand that sometimes a woman just wants to stir together three ingredients and pretend she has her life together.
The Freedom of Low-Stakes Desserts
Traditional (or “serious”) online recipes demand precision, patience, and a willingness to watch someone chop apples for six minutes before they even speak.
Instagram?
Instagram says: chaos is a personality trait.
And I like that.
The stakes are low. The time is short. And worst-case scenario, I waste two euros worth of ingredients and learn never to trust a woman who says, “This tastes just like the original” while holding a bowl of blended oats.
My husband treats cooking like science. I treat cooking like improv theatre.
He wants expertise. I want entertainment.
He wants deep dives. I want… vibes.
The One-Person Dessert Economy
Let’s talk logistics:
This man doesn’t eat sweets.
Not mine.
Not anyone’s.
Not even the good ones.
He is Switzerland in the world of dessert discourse: neutral, distant, and disturbingly unaffected.
Which means his opinion on Instagram sweets is actually theoretical. Philosophical. Conceptual.
He’s judging recipes he has never tasted, will never taste, and would rather shave his head than sample. It’s like someone who hates rollercoasters insisting you should only ride the safe, boring ones shaped like caterpillars.
Sir, I’m here for adrenaline. And by adrenaline, I mean a “healthy brownie” that may or may not glue my teeth together.
The Hidden Truth About Instagram Cooking
What he doesn’t see is how much joy it gives me.
The spark of “Oooh, I could make that.” The thrill of a new idea. The excitement of a dessert that takes less time than brushing my hair.
He sees nonsense.
I see creativity.
He sees shortcuts.
I see possibilities.
He sees a dubious mixture of yoghurt and cocoa powder.
I see the chance to satisfy a sweet tooth without falling into a supermarket candy aisle like a medieval knight in battle.
He sees flawed technique.
I see a hobby.
He sees a threat to culinary standards upheld by YouTube chefs in aprons.
I see Tuesday afternoon fun.
And Honestly? Let People Eat Their Instagram Sweets
People judge everything:
How much sugar you eat.
How many vegetables you don’t.
How many reels you watch.
How many weird little protein truffles you make at 9 p.m.
Let them.
I’m not harming anyone.
Not even him – he doesn’t have to touch a single crumb of my “protein tiramisu experiment” unless an asteroid hits Earth and it becomes our only source of nutrition.
So the next time he sighs dramatically and says, “You know, there are better recipes out there,”
I’ll simply smile, take a bite of whatever slightly rubbery creation I’ve made, and say:
“Maybe. But these are fun.”
And fun matters.
Even if it sometimes tastes like chocolate-flavoured disappointment.
Erika Matic writes about domestic nonsense, modern judgement, and the radical freedom of making questionable desserts purely for your own enjoyment. She believes joy isn’t found in perfection – sometimes it’s found in a very questionable protein pancake.
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