I was born into a grand culinary experiment—one that began in the hardscrabble kitchens of the Great Depression and evolved through American ingenuity into a postwar paradise of processed food. In those lean years, dietitians emerged as unlikely heroes. While most people scraped by on rations and ingenuity, the stewards of nutrition saw opportunity. With the country hungry—literally—for stability, they set out to reengineer the American plate.

“A chicken in every pot” became a national goal and a culinary arms race followed: chicken nuggets, cream gravy, white bread, and more chicken restaurants per capita than anywhere else in the world. I grew up on orange-flavored Hi-C, wacky cake, ambrosia, and bologna on white bread. Somehow, I’m still standing.

But I have a dream that with the help of artificial intelligence, the world will undergo a new revolution, where food is both abundant and without consequence. I dreamed a dream about a place called Glaciera.

In the year 2045, following the nutritional uprising known as the Edible Renaissance, science conquered food. Every bite was optimized—calibrated for perfect health, ideal emotion, and biological bliss.

In this land people ate only ice cream. Morning to night: scoops, swirls, sundaes, cones, shakes. Sugar and cream, without shame or side effects. No one aged poorly, no one gained weight, no one ever felt too full.

But every utopia has a crack.

A bio-chef named Lyra stumbled upon a forgotten archive of ancient Earth recipes—dishes with contrast, with heat, with crunch and bitterness and sour. She became obsessed with reintroducing real flavor, meals that surprised rather than soothed.

Her culinary curiosity threatened the emotional equilibrium of Glaciera, where citizens’ moods were regulated through sweet dairy algorithms. Political factions emerged. The Savories rose.

They smuggled in forbidden creations: jambalaya curry ice cream, jalapeño gelato, and even…soup.

Yes, someone made soup.

The perfect order of Glaciera began to melt.

Perhaps this future of gourmet monotony, no matter how delicious, is too tidy. After all, the foods that shaped me weren’t fancy. They were humble, odd, sometimes mysterious.

My wife Karen tells the story of a sacred jar of iced tea her parents kept disguised in an old prune juice container. It was their secret—hidden in plain sight, away from the hands of thirsty children. On Sunday nights, her family packed into the car for “buck night” at the drive-in movies. They’d walk past the glowing concession stand, the buttery smell of popcorn swirling in the night air, only to return to the car for their ration: plums and carrot sticks in a brown paper bag.

Even the gas station was a place of culinary wonder, with a red cooler and these words scripted on the side: Drink Coca-Cola—In Bottles—Ice Cold. Long-necks—Orange Crush, Strawberry, and Grape Nehi—were buried treasures beneath the ice.

Names matter in the culinary world. The Germans, bless them, say liverwurst—as if they know already what everyone else does. Then again, Bavarians name their pastries more mysteriously with names like Streuselkuchen, a word that sounds like a sneeze in church. 

My grandmother Davis, began a family in the Oklahoma panhandle during the Dust Bowl. She had no tolerance for waste. At Sunday dinners, she’d snatch the chicken leg off my plate and finish what I hadn’t. No gristle, skin, or sinew was safe. She gnawed it clean, because she remembered what it meant to go without—those dark days when she wasn’t sure if the sun would shine again, if the wheat would take root in dust, or if her children would eat.

And so I wonder: does my ice cream utopia really stand a chance?

Maybe not.

Maybe real nourishment is found not in perfection, but in memory. In a messy kitchen full of garlic and steam. In a garden’s first tomato. In roasted corn and caramelized onions, Brussels sprouts with bacon, and a bowl of blackberries dripping with cream.

Maybe food, like love, needs its flaws.

So here’s to the old ways. To the dirty dishes. To the paper bags and prune juice jars. To the lovely sound of conversation around a table of delicious food. 

Bon appétit. And L’Chaim.