The vast majority of responses were also connected to childhood memories, usually carb-rich: macaroni and cheese (processed, not home-made), ramen (preferably the cheap kind), Wonder bread sandwiches filled with potato chips, sugar, or nonpareils. Men, in particular, seemed to have a talent for pleasing kids and grandkids with strange improvisations when women are out of the house. Respondents told me about the toast with cinnamon and sugar dad made for breakfast, or the mashed potato sandwiches with mint sauce that were a grandfather’s specialty.

Most interesting, and most varied, were foods that people associated with the places they came from. I do not know if fried bologna and ketchup sandwiches are really “a Buffalo NY thing,” as one woman insisted, or if Hormel Vienna Sausages on white bread with mustard are typical to Mississippi. What struck me was that people held on to the memory of these simple sandwiches as a marker of home. A German friend recalled pressing a Mars bar into a hot bread roll bought from the local bakery, and inhaling the gooey treat in seconds. A friend from Russia thought back to the raw onion salad, dressed only with mayonnaise, she made for herself when there was nothing else to snack on.

By now it should be clear that there is, in fact, no such thing as “bad” food. There’s only food someone else considers bad. People craft identities and relationships through such differences in taste: In college, two friends and I took advantage of a local store’s six-topping special to develop a pizza we considered divine. It featured chicken, roasted red pepper, hot peppers, feta, pineapple, and extra cheese, and when other students came to our dorm room to bum a slice, they left after one look at the pie. Naturally, “The Pizza” became a great source of bonding, a meal only we three could love.

What’s more, so-called bad food is often intensely good. Martha Stewart defended her hideous food tweets by saying the meals were delicious, and she was right: Ugly pictures are a reminder that food can taste wonderful and be deeply nourishing even when it’s not styled for a photo shoot. How a dish looks tells us little about how it tastes, especially since the long cooking that produces complex flavors often also results in uncomely brown mush. On the other hand, food that’s bad because it breaks rules can offer an unexpected thrill. In The Language of Food, the linguist Dan Jurafsky explains the fad for bacon ice cream as a pleasurable violation of American food conventions—pork should be in the main course, and dessert ought to be sweet, so combining them feels rebellious and fun. This kind of playful fusion is trendy, but it’s also, as Jurafsky points out, how culinary innovation happens.

It’s a cliché by now that food is culture. But it needs to be added that much of what is important about culture lies in marginal cooking. People so often look to the highs to understand their relationship with food, but they also need to look to the lows—this, I propose, is what lies behind the fascination with food that breaks rules. Weird food is so often personal, the result of home cooking and experimentation in the kitchen. Bad food speaks to individual tastes, to the awful combinations people invent and eat when they’re on their own. Junky, sweet, and processed treats recall the freedom enjoyed as children. And unorthodox food can reflect our identities and histories: from the pig parts that our ancestors set in jelly to the meatloaf only mom could burn right.

We want to hear what you think about this article. Submit a letter to the editor or write to letters@theatlantic.com.