I don't think it ever works to tell people what they can't eat.

The words of Alice Waters—“I don’t think it ever works to tell people what they can’t eat. They can do it for so long, and then they fall off. You have to bring them into a new relationship with food.”—ring with the wisdom of one who has lived close to the earth and understood its bounty. These are not words about diet alone, but about human nature, about the futility of restriction without love, and the power of transformation through relationship. To forbid is to bind, but to invite into harmony is to free. Thus speaks Waters, like a gardener who knows the soil must be nurtured, not merely fenced.

When she warns that rules about what one can’t eat soon collapse, she names a truth as old as man’s struggle with desire. For prohibitions often breed rebellion, and what is denied becomes more tempting. The ancients understood this well: when Orpheus was told not to look back at Eurydice, the command itself became unbearable, and he turned. So too with food: to forbid without changing the heart is to invite failure. A person may endure for a season, but without deeper renewal, the old habits return with twice the force.

Instead, Waters speaks of forming a new relationship with food, one rooted in joy, reverence, and respect. To relate to food not as enemy but as friend, not as temptation but as nourishment, transforms the act of eating from compulsion into communion. This echoes the teachings of many ancient cultures: the Greeks who saw dining as a sacred gathering, the Japanese who bow to thank the rice, the Native peoples who honor the animal whose life sustains theirs. In these practices, food is not simply consumed—it is cherished, and in cherishing, one’s desires are reshaped.

History offers vivid proof of her wisdom. Consider the reforms of the Roman statesman Cato the Elder, who sought to discipline his household not merely by restricting indulgence but by teaching reverence for simple, wholesome meals. He valued olives, cabbage, and grains above exotic feasts, instilling in his people a sense of pride in simplicity. By shaping a new relationship with food, he created a culture of strength and endurance, while those who chased luxury fell into decay. Waters’ insight flows from this same ancient stream: to build a lasting bond, one must cultivate love, not merely enforce denial.

The meaning of her words goes beyond food to touch every human endeavor. Restriction may achieve short-term compliance, but transformation requires the heart. You may command a student not to be lazy, but until you awaken in him the love of learning, his diligence will fade. You may forbid a people from vice, but until you inspire in them the beauty of virtue, the vice will return. So too with food: only when one sees it as gift, as delight, as sacred fuel for life, will the old cravings lose their hold.

For us, the lesson is clear: do not build your life upon lists of what you must not do, but upon new relationships with the things that sustain you. Learn to delight in the simple, the fresh, the whole. Take joy in cooking, in gathering, in the colors of fruit and the fragrance of herbs. Let food remind you of the soil, the farmer, the sun, and the rain, and it will cease to be an enemy. In this way, eating becomes not a battle of willpower, but a celebration of life.

The practical action is this: begin with gratitude. When you eat, pause to acknowledge the journey of that food to your plate. Explore the markets, cook with your hands, and invite others to share the table. Replace what is empty with what is alive. By doing so, you are not depriving yourself but awakening yourself, as Waters counsels, to a new relationship with food.

Thus let this teaching be passed down: the way to lasting change is not through chains of prohibition, but through bonds of love. Alice Waters, in her wisdom, shows us that when we honor food as life itself, we no longer fall from the path. We walk it with joy, with strength, and with gratitude, nourished in both body and soul.