Joy Without Justification

I am not much of a chef, mostly because I don’t often value food as an experience in itself. I enjoy dining with people, but for the conversation and the company, not the food. Cooking has always felt somewhat unproductive to me because you spend time and effort creating something that disappears the moment you eat it. Feeding myself feels like a chore, and I usually approach it that way. But recently, I found myself exploring food in a way that was engaging and joyful.

It started with an impulse purchase; I suddenly found myself with dinosaur chicken nuggets in the trunk of my car. It was kind of a goofy idea, and I wasn’t entirely sure how I would make a balanced meal out of this freezer item. But then inspiration struck me; I had a vision for an entire dinosaur diorama in the form of Japanese curry. I decided to create dinosaur katsu curry.

I plated the rice and curry as usual, but then I placed dino nuggets where chicken katsu would normally sit, added steamed broccoli upright like small trees, and built a fried garlic “nest” with a soft-boiled egg sitting gracefully at its center. I literally jumped up and down with joy at every stage, smiling and feeling a lightness I forgot existed. It wasn’t pride or accomplishment, and it wasn’t the satisfaction of doing something impressive. It was simple, pure, expectation-free joy. This experience felt distantly familiar, the thrill of doing something fun without caring what it proved. I was excited to show my sister, in the same way I used to run to show my parents things as a child.

I was a big dinosaur kid growing up and believe that this interest wasn’t random. Dinosaurs were early expressions of curiosity, imagination, pattern-seeking, and a desire to understand the world around me. Truthfully, these are traits that are still part of me today. So, when I decided to make dinosaur curry, something felt familiar in a way I hadn’t felt in years. It felt like reconnecting with a buried part of myself, one I had filtered away under layers of responsibility. I was proud of myself for enjoying myself.

It also made me pause. Why had it been so long since I felt that kind of joy? It was the kind that sits at the top of your head, pulling the corners of your mouth into a smile, making you want to jump. Somewhere along the way, adulthood began editing pieces of me. Responsibilities required prioritizing, and prioritizing slowly pushed curiosity aside. Time and energy now had a return on investment, and some curiosities were too risky or too costly.

As an adult, I feel the pressure to fulfill my “full potential.” We hear messages like “If you love what you do, you won’t work a day in your life,” or “If you enjoy something, you’ll be better at it,” until even hobbies are expected to become side hustles. Joy becomes transactional and curiosity becomes something to justify. Productivity expectations and time scarcity limit the degree to which we can act upon curiosity without consequence.

I stumble navigating these systems, tailoring myself to what seems valued, sometimes losing sight of what I value. This is what made the dinosaur curry moment feel significant. Authentic curiosity carries no consequences. If it fails, no one loses anything, and if it succeeds, it doesn’t need to change the world, for better or for worse. Adult intellectual curiosity, on the other hand, is often observed and evaluated, tied to responsibilities and identity. Even the things I am most excited and curious about professionally are often driven by expectations and pressure to deliver. Rediscovering unburdened joy reminded me of the curiosity that didn’t need to prove anything to anyone.

The experience humbled me. I had forgotten what pure playfulness felt like. I had forgotten what it felt like to jump up and down with joy alone in a room, without an audience and without a purpose. The curry didn’t move my career forward or improve my skills. It didn’t generate anything measurable, but it reminded me there is real value in things even when they have no external value. Something joyful does not have to be productive to matter.

Maybe joy doesn’t need to be justified with value. Maybe joy, in its simplest form, is enough. And maybe, every now and then, it looks as delicious as dinosaur curry.