I used to dread dinner time, you know? Standing in my cluttered kitchen at 5 PM, staring at cabinets stuffed with gadgets I'd bought "just in case," trying to figure out what on earth to make from the random collection of ingredients slowly going bad in my fridge. After thirty-four years of teaching, the last thing I wanted was to come home and face another decision-heavy situation. But that's exactly what my kitchen had become – a daily source of stress instead of nourishment.
The breaking point came about two years into retirement. Jim and I were arguing about dinner plans (again), and I realized I was spending more mental energy on meal planning than I ever did on lesson planning. That's when it hit me – I'd been approaching food the same way I'd been approaching everything else in my house. Too much stuff, too many options, too much complexity.
So I started simplifying my approach to cooking and eating, and honestly? It's been one of the most calming changes I've made since retiring. Not just because my kitchen is less cluttered (though that helps), but because mealtimes have become something I actually look forward to instead of another daily task to stress about.
The first thing I did was empty out every single cabinet and drawer in my kitchen. Sounds dramatic, but I needed to see what I was working with. Three can openers. Five wooden spoons that I never used because I always reached for the same one. A pasta maker still in its box from 1987. A collection of specialty baking pans for holidays I hadn't celebrated in years. It was embarrassing, really.
I kept only what I actually used regularly – one good knife, one cutting board, a few quality pots and pans, basic utensils. Everything else got donated or tossed. My daughter thought I'd lost my mind when I gave away the fondue pot she'd given me for Christmas ten years ago, but honestly, when was the last time anyone made fondue?
Same thing with my pantry. I had spices that expired during the Clinton administration, canned goods I'd bought for recipes I never made, three different types of vinegar that I couldn't tell apart. Cleared it all out and started over with just the basics – salt, pepper, olive oil, a few herbs I actually use.
What happened next surprised me. With fewer choices, cooking became easier. Way easier. Instead of standing there overwhelmed by possibilities, I could quickly see what I had and make something simple. No more decision paralysis, no more wasted ingredients, no more guilt about that expensive truffle oil sitting unused in the back of the cabinet.
I started planning just three or four meals for the week – nothing fancy, just simple combinations of protein, vegetables, and maybe rice or pasta. Tuesday might be chicken with whatever vegetables look good at the store. Thursday could be a basic pasta with garlic and olive oil. Sunday, maybe a pot of soup that'll give us leftovers for lunch.
Shopping became so much simpler too. I make a list based on those few planned meals, plus basic staples we're running low on. No more wandering the aisles wondering if I need something, no more impulse buys of interesting ingredients that'll sit unused. In and out in thirty minutes, and I actually use everything I buy.
Jim was skeptical at first – he's always been the "what if we want something different" type. But even he admits it's nice to open the fridge and actually know what we're having for dinner, instead of playing that nightly game of "what can we make from this random assortment of stuff?"
The real game-changer, though, has been focusing on seasonal, local ingredients when possible. Not because I'm trying to be fancy or trendy, but because it actually makes planning easier. In summer, everything revolves around tomatoes and corn and whatever's growing in my little garden. Fall means squash and apples. Winter is root vegetables and hearty soups. Spring brings fresh greens and asparagus. The seasons do the planning for me, in a way.
And you know what? The food tastes better. When you're working with just a few quality ingredients instead of trying to combine seventeen different things, the natural flavors really come through. A simple pasta with good olive oil, fresh herbs from my windowsill garden, and maybe some parmesan is more satisfying than those complicated recipes I used to stress over.
I've also changed how we eat, not just what we eat. Used to be we'd grab plates and eat in front of the TV, or Jim would eat standing at the counter while reading his phone. Now we actually sit at the table – which I can use for eating instead of mail storage, thanks to my decluttering efforts. We talk about our day, actually taste our food, take our time.
It sounds silly, but eating has become peaceful. No rushing, no distractions, no stress about whether the meal is impressive enough or healthy enough or whatever. Just two people enjoying simple food together. Sometimes our granddaughter joins us when she visits, and she actually sits still longer than she used to because the whole atmosphere is calmer.
I'm not saying we never order pizza or that every meal is some zen experience. Last week I threw together scrambled eggs and toast for dinner because I forgot to plan anything, and that was fine too. The point isn't perfection – it's removing the daily stress and complexity that was making cooking feel like a chore.
The bigger lesson here is the same one I keep learning in retirement – having fewer choices often means having more freedom. Fewer ingredients to choose from means less time deciding what to cook. Fewer gadgets means less time searching for the right tool. Fewer items in the pantry means less time checking what's going bad.
My kitchen counter is mostly clear now, with just a few things I use daily. My pantry has space between items so I can actually see what I have. My refrigerator isn't stuffed so full that things get lost in the back. And dinner happens every night without drama or stress or last-minute grocery runs.
This whole approach has spilled over into other parts of retirement too. When you realize how much mental energy was going into meal planning and kitchen management, you start noticing other areas where you're making things more complicated than they need to be. Simple really can be better, especially when you're trying to enjoy this phase of life instead of just manage it.
The best part is that cooking has become enjoyable again. Instead of a daily source of stress, it's become a quiet, meditative part of my day. Just me, a few good ingredients, and the simple pleasure of making something nourishing for the people I love.
Carol’s a retired teacher from Maine who swapped classroom clutter for calm spaces. She writes about downsizing, letting go of sentimental stuff, and finding joy in living with less. Practical, honest, and refreshingly grounded, her stories prove that simplicity really can be freedom
