Sad, bad date recipes have taken over Instagram and I have had enough

Do you ever get the feeling that the entire world is gaslighting you? Or, at the very least, everyone else is part of a collective delusion and you’re the only one who sees reality for what it is?

That’s precisely how I feel whenever I am forced to see, think about or hear about dates – i.e. basically every time I open Instagram (which is far too often, but that’s a whole other problem).

All I hear about is how wonderful dates are. How versatile dates are. How good dates are for your gut. Obviously, I’m not talking about the romantic kind (although maybe a fun date with a hot partner has great benefits for your microbiome? I don’t know, I’m not a scientist). No, I’m talking about those dried-up, shrivelled, sad excuses for a “sweet treat”.

They may be sweet but the current place they hold in our collective “treat” canon exemplifies everything that is wrong with food trends. Really, they’re just the latest iteration of lies sold to us by Big Diet to make us think we can enjoy “sweet” things as long as it’s in a “healthy” way. The ’70s had cottage cheese with pineapple chunks, the ’80s had fat-free yoghurt parfaits, the ’90s had “slimming” shakes, and the 2000s ushered in a new millennium of low-carb, low-sugar and no-sugar options.

This is how we ended up in the year 2025, being told to smear some peanut butter and dark chocolate on a dried-up date as a “yummy” replacement for a Snickers bar. My friends, I can tell you without even trying it that it is neither yummy nor remotely a replacement for a Snickers bar.

I get it, I really do. I am as much a product (victim) of diet culture as everybody else. When I’m scrolling my feed and see a reel touting a recipe for a “healthy” version of cookies or cake or brownies, I pause. I watch along with anticipation, hoping that maybe THIS will be it: that magical unicorn of a recipe that delivers an actual delicious dessert that is also nutritious and free from the baggage of decades of discourse about the evils of added sugar. Something I can feed my kids and myself without feeling guilty or, even better, while feeling virtuous. Something with fibre and antioxidants that a toddler and/or a woman in her 30s with a bad case of ADHD-driven snack habits will actually want to eat.

It all sounds too good to be true – and, of course, it is. Because every single time I watch one of these recipes I am left not only disappointed but actually infuriated. Do you know what the special ingredient is that actually sweetens the deal, nine times out of 10? DATES. Which are not something my toddler or my decrepit ADHD self ever feels compelled to eat.

It’s time to let dates be their ugly, shrivelled-up selves, in all their datey flavour and texture.

I don’t care how long you soak dates for, or how much you blend them into a pulp, they will never not be the texture or have the taste of DATES. They overpower any recipe they’re in, making everything date-flavoured – not at all like caramel, or honey, or whatever else @OrganicMamaInfluencer95 on Instagram tries to convince you they’re a suitable substitute for.

Now, I know that dates have a long history of being consumed and enjoyed in the Middle East. Their place in Arabic cultures and recipes is not something I want to disparage by any means. What I cannot abide is white wellness warriors spouting them as some universal superfood alternative to sugar, and the suggestion that their “healthier” recipes are anything but sad, squished date creations.

Here’s a wild concept – and I say this to myself as much as anyone else – if you want to eat something that tastes “just like a decadent, fudgey brownie” maybe just … eat a decadent, fudgey brownie, made the plain old-fashioned way with plain old sugar? And if you’re craving a Snickers bar, then maybe just – call me crazy – eat a Snickers bar, and stop trying to gaslight yourself into believing you’re actually enjoying a sad, nut-smeared date?

I mean, if you do enjoy nut-smeared dates, more power to you – go forth and eat them to your heart’s content. But please, eat them for their own sake. Eat them because they’re dates, and not because someone on Instagram is trying to convince you they’re something they’re not.

Ultimately, what I’m asking for is not just freedom from dates but also freedom for dates. They must have a worse case of impostor syndrome than a whole convention of adults who were formerly gifted children.

It’s time to let dates be their ugly, shrivelled-up selves, in all their datey flavour and texture. They have a place in the world, too. Just not in my sweet treats, please.

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