Around this time last year, I hit my limit with social media. You know the feeling: a doomscrolling blur of vacation flexes, political spirals and the neverending discourse about “White Lotus.” (Great show. Not worth the psychic cost.) I’d also reached a kind of platform fatigue — Instagram reels of TikToks about Bluesky posts featuring screenshots of X missives. Everything was everything. Nothing was anything.
And yet, unplugging felt like more than just a digital detox. It felt like losing a kind of community — or at least, the version of it that had once made sense to me. For years, social media had been how I shared and discovered food: new restaurants, dumb tweet-length food takes, light press release roasts during the height of the “New Southern” cuisine wave. (I lived in Kentucky then and one firm was particularly pushy in relaying their message that “artisan grits” were having a moment.) It was how I found chefs, cookbook writers, bartenders — and how I connected with people who, like me, actually did want to see what someone had for lunch.
So before I logged off for good, I put out a post: “Hey, do you like snail mail?”
Growing up in the '90s, I was always a little captivated by the magic of snail mail — the thrill of finding a fun letter nestled between the usual stack of bills, catalogs and junk. That single piece of personal mail could instantly shift your entire mood as you walked through the door, setting your keys down on the counter and feeling, for a moment, like the universe was offering you a small, delightful surprise.
As an adult, though, the thrill was harder to come by. Gone were the handwritten notes and greeting cards — replaced by spam and e-z pay reminders that only reinforced the feeling of everything being digital and fleeting. But there's this saying in the snail mail community: "To get mail, you have to send mail." Armed with a list of addresses and a sense of optimism, I thought I was ready to dive back in. Until I sat down with a blank piece of paper (or a notecard) and was utterly stumped. Where to begin?
One afternoon, at a local coffee shop, I tried to capture the essence of my week in an almost Austenian style for my sister. But as I reread my words, they felt bloated and uncharacteristically formal, the kind of thing I might write if I were trying to impress someone rather than just connect. Then, my gaze landed on the bowl in front of me: the perfect bowl of soup. It was chicken and rice — creamy, cozy, brimming with tender carrots and onions and served with a little hunk of sourdough. A meal my sister and I both absolutely adore. "I'm shifting into soup mode" is a phrase we've used in restaurants more times than I can count.
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Suddenly, I had a way in. I grabbed a highlighter from the bottom of my bag and began sketching a little illustration of the soup, coloring in the carrot chunks with bright orange. I scribbled a note: "I wish you were here eating this with me." It felt simple, real and far more me than any flowery prose I could muster.
And just like that, a piece of snail mail was born — and a whole practice has since unfurled around it.
A food writer friend and I now send recipes back and forth — nothing too serious, just the kind of thing you'd text if you could send a sandwich or a salad dressing via USPS. But instead, it's this card, with all the imperfections of handwritten notes and smudges of excitement.
Last fall, I bought a used film camera, and now I slip real photographs of real restaurants into my letters — the kind of personal touch that feels miles away from the performative posts on Instagram: "Hey, I ate at this place, and it made me think of you."
Lately, I've become a fan of restaurants that produce their own postcards, like Dove's Luncheonette in Chicago, which features charming illustrations of flowers used in their tablescapes and dishes like fried chicken with pearl onions and peas. The last time I visited, I sat by the window, with the blue line buzzing overhead, and slipped one of those postcards into an envelope addressed to one of my closest friends in California. "The postcard was too pretty to write on," I scribbled on a separate blank card, "But I'm sitting here drinking agua fresca (cucumber-mint) and just watching the trains go by. I miss you."
Rebecca Burick, the director of specialty commercial strategy for the stationery store Paper Source, met me last week at a bustling coffee shop catty-corner from Dove’s (she, too, is a fan of their postcards). She told me that the company regularly hosts challenges related to letter writing — like October's “31 Days of Bewitching Envelopes,” a series of follow-along envelope decorating prompts — and has seen participation nearly triple over the last three years.
“I think letter writing, it forces me to be a little more thoughtful about my words,” she said. “Maybe you say things you wouldn't if you were just firing off a text. And then, on the flip-side, it’s not just that process for you personally, but it’s a meaningful way to connect with people. I think we are seeing an appetite, a craving for those kinds of experiences.”
Burick noted how intimidating it can feel to step away from the immediacy of social media after you've spent years sharing your life in real-time. “What do I even write about?” is a question she’s heard from both friends and potential Paper Source customers who’ve considered giving snail mail a try. But, she said, it doesn’t have to be some grand, formal effort. It can be as simple as sending a movie ticket or a museum exhibit brochure, along with a quick note about why it made you think of someone. It’s about finding your thing — that simple, personal detail you want to share. For me, it just so happened to be food.
“When you think about gatherings and sharing food, there are so many reasons to send a note afterward,” Burick said. “I love the idea of sending something personal after a gathering, whether it’s at home or at a restaurant. It could be something simple, like a coaster, a menu scrap or even a doodle on a napkin. It’s a tactile way to share a little piece of the experience, like a tiny time capsule treasure.”
To Burick’s point, beyond postcards, there are so many food-themed treasures you can tuck into an envelope: photos, honey sticks, ramen seasoning packets, salt blends. A friend who runs a taco truck once mailed me a hot sauce packet, lovingly double-wrapped for safety. My mom, a lifelong coffee drinker, just told me she’s getting into tea. Tea bags fit in envelopes.
What I miss about social media isn’t the likes or the reach. It’s the small flashes of recognition—“I saw this and thought of you.” Turns out, I didn’t need an app for that. Just some stamps, a pen and a bowl of soup.
The algorithm never asked what kind of soup I was eating.
But my sister always does.
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