I never expected to become a champion of simplicity in the kitchen. Honestly, I used to be that parent with a drawer full of gadgets I never used and a pantry stuffed with specialty ingredients purchased for that one recipe I saw on Instagram (and never actually made). My cooking routine was chaotic – rushing around after work, frantically searching for ingredients while my kids whined about being hungry, and ultimately ordering takeaway more often than I care to admit.
The breaking point came during a particularly hellish Tuesday evening. I’d worked late, my 5-year-old was having a meltdown, my 8-year-old had homework questions, and I was staring into an overstocked fridge with absolutely no idea what to make for dinner. As I stood there, nearly in tears, surrounded by food but somehow with “nothing to eat,” I realized something had to change.
That night, after the kids were in bed (and yes, we had pizza delivered), I sat down with a cup of tea and really thought about what was making mealtimes so stressful. It wasn’t actually lack of time – it was the overwhelming complexity I’d created around cooking. Too many options. Too much equipment. Too many steps. Too much perfection.
The next day, I cleared out half my kitchen gadgets. Goodbye, pasta maker I’d used twice. Farewell, spiralizer that mostly collected dust. So long, fancy mandoline that terrified me anyway. I kept only what I genuinely used weekly. Initially, I felt a bit guilty – these were perfectly good tools, and I’d spent good money on them. But honestly? That drawer that used to stick because it was so full now glides open smoothly, and I can actually find what I need. (The charity shop was delighted, by the way.)
This initial clear-out sparked something in me. I began looking at my entire approach to feeding my family. What if cooking didn’t have to be complicated to be good? What if simplicity was actually the secret ingredient I’d been missing?
I started experimenting with what I call “foundation meals” – simple, nutritious bases that can be customized in endless ways. A pot of quinoa or rice at the beginning of the week. A tray of roasted vegetables. A batch of beans or lentils. These foundations became building blocks that could transform into countless meals throughout the week with minimal additional effort.
Take a Sunday roast chicken, for instance. That first night, we enjoy it hot with simple vegetables. Monday, the leftover meat gets tossed into a quick pasta or grain bowl. Tuesday, any remaining bits join vegetables in a soup. The carcass becomes stock for future meals. One cooking effort, multiple outcomes.
This approach dramatically simplified my mental load. Instead of confronting the eternal “what’s for dinner?” question from scratch each night, I already had components ready to assemble. Sometimes I had specific plans; other times, I just threw together what looked good and called it a “bowl meal” – a term my kids have accepted with surprising enthusiasm. “Bowl meals” in our house can be virtually anything served, well, in a bowl. Somehow this presentation makes even the most random combination of leftovers seem intentional.
But the real game-changer was when I embraced the concept of “good enough cooking.” I used to think every meal needed to be a full sensory experience – complex flavors, varied textures, beautiful presentation. That’s lovely for a weekend dinner party, but for Tuesday lunch? Completely unnecessary pressure.
I remember watching my son happily devour a bowl of plain rice topped with a fried egg and avocado, and having an epiphany: He doesn’t care about culinary complexity. He cares that it tastes good to him, fills his tummy, and gives him energy to go play. That’s it. The standard I was holding myself to existed only in my head.
This realization was incredibly freeing. I started focusing on simple, quality ingredients prepared with minimal fuss. Extra virgin olive oil, flaky salt, and lemon juice can make almost anything taste wonderful. Fresh herbs instantly elevate the humblest dishes. A good butter transforms a plain piece of toast into a satisfying snack.
I also stopped fighting against convenience products. There’s this weird food snobbery that’s crept into parenting culture, this idea that everything must be made from scratch to be “proper cooking.” What rubbish! Good-quality prepared foods can be absolute lifesavers. Pre-chopped vegetables? Yes please. Jars of high-quality pasta sauce? Absolutely. Frozen rice that microwaves in 3 minutes? Don’t mind if I do.
The trick, I’ve found, is being selective about which convenience items are actually helpful versus those that don’t save much time or compromise too much on quality. For instance, I rarely buy pre-grated cheese (it doesn’t taste as good and takes seconds to grate myself), but I regularly buy frozen chopped onions because peeling and chopping onions is my culinary nemesis.
Another strategy that’s been brilliantly effective is what I call “parallel cooking.” While I’m making tonight’s dinner, I’m simultaneously preparing components for tomorrow’s meal. If the oven’s already hot for roasting tonight’s chicken, I’ll throw in a tray of vegetables for tomorrow. If I’m chopping vegetables for a stir-fry, I’ll chop extra for tomorrow’s lunch boxes. This isn’t meal prepping in the Instagram-worthy, 20-identical-containers sense. It’s just practical piggybacking that saves time and energy.
I’ve also embraced cooking methods that require minimal active time. Slow cookers, pressure cookers, and sheet pan meals have become my best friends. There’s something magical about spending 10 minutes throwing ingredients together, walking away, and coming back to a complete meal. My pressure cooker can transform dried beans (absurdly economical compared to tinned) into tender perfection in under an hour with zero attention from me. My slow cooker turns the toughest, cheapest cuts of meat into meltingly tender stews while I’m at work.
The sheet pan method might be my favorite though. Virtually anything can be tossed on a baking sheet with a bit of oil and seasoning and roasted to deliciousness. One pan, very little washing up, and endless possibilities. I do chicken thighs with whatever vegetables need using up, sausages with apples and onions, salmon with broccoli and potatoes… you get the idea. The cleanup is minimal, and the results are consistently good.
Of course, this journey toward simplicity hasn’t been without its hiccups. My family initially resisted some changes – particularly my husband, who plaintively asked one evening, “Do we only eat food in bowls now?” There was the time I got overzealous with batch cooking and we had to eat variations on lentil soup for what felt like eternity. And I’ll never forget the “great spice cabinet purge” when I accidentally discarded a special blend my mother-in-law had brought back from Morocco. (Sorry, Linda.)
But gradually, this simpler approach has become our new normal, and I’ve noticed benefits extending beyond just easier mealtimes. Our grocery bill has decreased significantly. Food waste has plummeted because I’m buying and preparing more intentionally. The kids are more likely to try new foods when they’re presented simply rather than hidden in complex preparations. And perhaps most importantly, I’ve rediscovered joy in feeding my family, now that it’s no longer synonymous with stress and complexity.
I’m not suggesting everyone needs to embrace minimalist cooking to the degree I have. Your circumstances, preferences, and culinary traditions will dictate your own version of “simple enough.” Maybe for you, elaborate weekend cooking is a cherished creative outlet. Brilliant! Enjoy that fully. The point isn’t to strip cooking of pleasure or creativity – it’s to strip away the unnecessary complications that turn what could be a pleasurable part of daily life into a source of dread.
Some days, my cooking still involves multiple steps and special ingredients. Sometimes I make pizza dough from scratch or spend a Sunday afternoon preparing a more involved family meal. The difference is that now those are conscious choices rather than default expectations.
The most unexpected outcome of all this? My kids are becoming more capable in the kitchen. With our simplified approach, they can actually participate meaningfully in meal preparation. My eight-year-old can now assemble a respectable grain bowl from pre-prepared components. My five-year-old proudly makes “snack plates” for the family – essentially boards of fruit, cheese, crackers and whatever else catches his fancy. They’re building confidence and skills that will serve them well throughout life.
And on those inevitable days when everything goes pear-shaped – when meetings run late, children melt down, and the very thought of cooking makes me want to scream into a pillow – we eat cereal for dinner. And you know what? Everyone survives. Some might even say they enjoy it.
That’s perhaps the most valuable lesson I’ve learned on this journey: Perfect meals aren’t what make memories. Being present with each other matters infinitely more than what’s on the plate. Simplifying cooking gives me back the time and energy to actually engage with my family during mealtimes rather than frantically managing complicated preparations while they wait.
So if you, like my former self, are drowning in culinary complexity – surrounded by unused kitchen gadgets and aspirational cookbooks, overwhelmed by the daily question of what to cook – I invite you to try taking a step back. What could you simplify? What expectations could you release? What “good enough” solutions might actually be great in their own right?
Your version of minimalist cooking might look completely different from mine. That’s as it should be. The fundamental principle isn’t about any particular method or recipe – it’s about finding the level of simplicity that brings ease and joy back to feeding yourself and those you love.
