I can cook, but I also want everything to look beautiful on the

Hear the words of Megan Fox: “I can cook, but I also want everything to look beautiful on the plate—then I get upset when people eat it. Everyone just tears through it, and that makes me sad. It’s not a rewarding experience for me to cook.” Though spoken of food and the table, these words reveal a deeper truth about human longing: the tension between creation and consumption, between the artist’s desire for beauty and the world’s hunger to use and consume.

For in every age, the maker struggles with this sorrow. To shape something with care, to adorn it with one’s heart, and then to see it devoured, broken, or forgotten—this is the fate of many who create. The sculptor carves the marble, only for it to be weathered by rain. The poet arranges words like jewels, only for them to be read hastily and cast aside. The cook, like Fox, arranges the plate into harmony, only to see it torn by knives and swallowed without pause. This is not mere vanity; it is the ache of the soul that yearns for its creation to be honored as more than fuel.

The ancients told such a tale in the myth of Hephaestus, god of the forge. He labored to craft weapons of splendor, inlaid with artistry. Yet when they were given to warriors, they were used not as objects of beauty but as instruments of destruction. The god’s artistry was consumed by war, his beauty by blood. In the same way, Megan Fox’s lament is not about food alone, but about the sorrow of every artist whose work is consumed without reverence.

Consider also the story of the Ming artisans of China, who painted porcelain with breathtaking care. To them, each plate was not a vessel but a canvas, every brushstroke a prayer. Yet many of these works, shipped across oceans, were used merely as dining ware, their art vanishing beneath scraps of food. The artisans’ beauty was devoured, just as Fox’s cooking is “torn through.” Here lies the shared grief: that what is meant as art is often received as utility.

Yet this sorrow also teaches wisdom. The truth is that once a creation is given to the world, the maker cannot control how it is used. To create is to let go. The experience is not only in the crafting, but also in the surrender. Food, once plated, is meant to be eaten. Beauty, once offered, is meant to fade in the living of it. If one clings only to the preservation of form, one misses the deeper purpose: the nourishment of body and spirit, the fleeting joy of the moment, the honor of giving.

The lesson, then, is balance. To create beauty is noble, but one must also learn to rejoice when beauty fulfills its purpose, even if it is destroyed in the process. The flower blooms, but it wilts; yet its fragrance is not wasted. The feast is eaten, but it strengthens and delights. The story is told, but it fades into memory; yet it shapes hearts while it lasts. The wise creator finds peace in the ephemerality of their work.

Therefore, let us act with both care and release. When you make something—be it a meal, a song, a gift—shape it with all your love. But when you give it, let it go. Do not cling to how it is received; rejoice that it serves. And if you are the one receiving, honor the work. Do not devour without gratitude. Pause, notice, give thanks. For to consume without reverence deepens the sorrow of the maker.

Thus Megan Fox’s lament becomes timeless teaching: that creation is both joy and grief, beauty and loss. To create is to give part of oneself, knowing it will be consumed. But to create anyway—to keep cooking, writing, building, singing—is the act of courage that defines the human spirit. For though beauty may vanish in the using, the love behind it endures forever.