A bakery somewhere in the US went full-on whimsy and added “love” to their ingredients list. You might think it’s adorable –- a lot of people did. I rolled my eyes so hard, they got their own cardio session. Just to be clear, this was several years ago (2017), but it still made quite an impression on me.

The US FDA agreed too with an official “Yeah, no.” Their cease-and-desist essentially said ‘love don’t mean a thing’, especially on food labels. 

So I was pretty skeptical the very first time I heard that GourmetPro expert Veronika Stabinger, who is an innovation expert and founder of HumanCentered Solutions, explores how emotion and intention shape our experience of food. She apparently even researches whether love COULD actually be an ingredient. But she clarified.

Watch it on YouTube:

Or listen to it on Spotify: 

Veronika wasn’t arguing for love to appear on a label. She was asking a deeper question: can love be part of the experience of food? Something we perceive through context, memory, and meaning – and something that should inform how we design products and systems.

That’s the useful shift: Don’t claim love. Create the conditions where people feel it. The idea immediately intrigued me, and I wanted to learn more about what this many-splendored thing could mean for the food and beverage industry.

Love shows up through connection, intention, and ritual. Most of us recognize this instinctively. We have our own versions of “mom’s hands” or “grandma’s cooking”, that gold standard that everything else is measured against. The underlying idea is simple: care leaves a trace you can taste.

And we’re seeing that care resurface in unexpected ways. Like how there’s been an explosion of grandmother cooking channels on YouTube, from the pasta grannies in Italy, Aapli Aaji and various others in India, or Chef Grandma Cooking from Azerbaijan. Millions tune in not only for the recipes but for the calm, warmth, and humanity that radiate from those kitchens. For some, it’s nostalgia. For others, it’s comfort in a noisy world. For aging communities, it’s also a way of keeping traditions alive before they fade away.

This sense of connection extends beyond screens.

While the recipes, dishes, and cultures vary wildly, one thing ties them all together: love.

Corny, I know, but kinda sweet too.

Veronika shared one story she heard while doing research work for the non-profit platform Teaspoon of Love, where she is a founding member. A woman swore she could pick her grandmother’s lasagna out of a thousand. When Veronika spoke to the grandmother, she shrugged and said it was just a trusty 1960s recipe that fed a lot of people with minimal fuss. Their perspectives didn’t match: the granddaughter may have been tasting her love for her grandma, not some secret grandma technique. In other words, meaning may sit as much with the eater as with the maker. Heady stuff, no? 

As Veronika said, “We’re cooking less at home. Kitchens are smaller. Time is tighter. Yet our desire for food that feels cared for hasn’t gone anywhere. It has, if anything, become sharper. Which raises the obvious question for brands: how do you bring that sense of love – the human warmth, the attention – into a product that’s made at scale without tipping into kitsch or breaking the rules?”

And that’s why Veronika’s work hooked me. Her research reframes how emotional context, rituals, and human needs shape food perception – offering practical frameworks for designing care into scalable systems. She’s looking into how intention, care, and connection actually change what we taste, remember, and buy. In fact, one could argue that the scarce resource isn’t as much convenience as it is perceived care. Systems that create time, attention, and agency for eaters win trust. That’s kind of why grandma channels are so popular. So, design for human needs first, then scale. Everything else is décor.

Start by mapping where your product offers responses to human basic needs, such as comfort, security, or belonging, and not just taste. Ask real eaters what they’re solving for: time, decision fatigue, or a need to feel cared for. Then remove the tiny frictions that undermine that feeling. 

Skip the whole “made with love” shtick. Invite consumers to add one small finishing touch so the dish feels a little bit theirs. That last minute of attention, whether it’s a squeeze or drizzle or tear, creates authorship, deepens attachment to the food and connects the cook to the eater.
 

Don’t just talk about the people behind the food, build their care into the process itself. Integrate small human steps where the attention truly matters. Such as during finishing, tasting, or portioning, so they shape the experience, not just the story. Keep it simple, so it is genuine and not just for performance or marketing.

Partner with elder creators and heritage kitchens to teach slow skills that comfort and empower. Focus on skill-transfer and patient pacing rather than complex showmanship. This preserves intention in modern constraints.
 

Create small, shared occasions so a solo meal feels communal. Use seasonal ingredients, regional twists, upcycled micro-runs, or synchronized “eat-together windows” to turn products into experiences people want to talk about.
 

Here’s the point: Love isn’t a label, it’s a design choice. It can show up as connection, intention, and small rituals you can actually build into products and systems. 

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