A couple of weeks ago, I went out to dinner alone while traveling for work. When my meal arrived, I was caught off guard: the soup came in Styrofoam, and the cutlery was plastic. I had not ordered take-out or asked for to-go service. I was seated inside the restaurant, surrounded by the impression that this was an experience of dining—but all those expectations had already been stripped away.
I looked around. The tablecloth might as well have been absent; no ceramic bowl to cradle the soup, no weight to the utensil in my hand. It wasn’t just one meal. Over the past few years, I’ve noticed these subtle shifts happening more often. A coffee ordered in a café: already in a paper cup with a plastic lid, before I even say whether I’ll drink it there. A salad or pasta dish: delivered with flimsy utensils that bend, plates that barely seem to matter. The things that once said, “Here, take your time. Enjoy this,” have been quietly replaced with the things that say, “Here. Grab it. Move on.”
To many, this might seem trivial. Why fixate on cutlery, on the material of a cup, on whether a mug is ceramic or a paper sleeve? But when I sat there, alone, stirring soup in a foam bowl, I realized it’s more than just preference—it’s about dignity. Small signals matter. They tell us whether someone cared enough to put intention into that moment. They tell us whether moments are meant to be experienced or just consumed.
Think about the weight of a ceramic mug, how warm it feels. The firmness of a metal spoon or fork. The way a glass tumbler cools your hand, how a plate with weight and texture shows someone planned for you to sit, to taste, to enjoy. These tiny, tactile experiences ground us. They remind us that eating is not just fuel, drinking is not just hydration, being present is not just waiting for what comes next.
When we cheapen everything—when we accept disposability as the norm—we lose more than aesthetics. We lose connection. We lose respect. We begin to expect less, to accept “good enough” for what was once considered meaningful. And when everything is stripped down to what’s cheapest or easiest, what are we teaching ourselves? That beauty doesn’t matter. That care is optional. That the people around us—and ourselves—are owed nothing more than the bare minimum.
This creeping disposability isn’t confined to restaurants or coffee shops. It bleeds into how we treat our homes, our neighborhoods, our relationships. It colors public spaces, how clean or watered they are; how many benches are painted, how many trees are tended. It seeps into our work. It whispers that efficiency is everything, that cost-cutting trumps care, that what lasts is less valuable than what’s cheap or throwaway.
I left that dinner feeling hollow, in a way I didn’t expect. Not because the food was bad, or the service poor—but because for all the trappings of dining, the soul of it felt missing. There was no ceremony in placing silverware, no stillness in sipping from something made to hold heat, no pause between bites to taste, to reflect, to be present.
I’m not saying we need porcelain everywhere or that paper cups are evil. But what if we reclaimed a little more of what has quietly slipped away? What if we asked for plates that don’t flex, bowls that fit in hand, mugs that hold warmth, glasses that capture light? What if we treated these small moments not as obstacles or luxuries, but as rights—our right to beauty, to presence, to being more than transient consumers in our own lives?
Because when we do, something changes. We feel more rooted. We feel more aware. We notice delight again. We feel seen. We treat others better—and maybe ourselves, too. The small joys we let go of are not harmless. They shape what we expect of our world, of each other, of our lives. Maybe if more of us insist that the details matter, things will begin to shift, quietly at first, then more broadly.