The feeling is insidious, isn’t it? That slow creep of powerlessness, the sense that life is happening to you rather than being something you actively shape. It doesn’t necessarily need a grand catastrophe to trigger it; often, it’s the accumulation of small frustrations, unfulfilled expectations, and an overwhelming tide of ‘shoulds’ that leaves you feeling adrift. The world feels chaotic, unpredictable, and beyond your influence. And when I find myself there, battling that particular brand of anxiety, my immediate instinct isn’t to meditate or journal (though those have their place). My instinct is to cook. Not extravagant, show-stopping meals – though sometimes those can be cathartic too – but specific, deliberately chosen recipes that offer a tangible sense of agency and restoration.
It’s about reclaiming control in the smallest, most satisfying way possible. Cooking, at its core, is a series of decisions: what to make, how to prepare it, when it’s done. Each step is a conscious act, a tiny assertion of will against the backdrop of uncertainty. The kitchen transforms into a laboratory where I’m the scientist, carefully measuring ingredients, manipulating textures, and ultimately creating something nourishing from raw components. It’s profoundly grounding. There’s a beautiful simplicity to it – flour becomes bread, vegetables become soup, disparate elements coalesce into a cohesive whole. And that act of creation is incredibly empowering when everything else feels fragmented and out of sync. This isn’t about achieving culinary perfection; it’s about the process itself being the antidote to feeling lost.
The Comfort of Precision Baking
Baking, in particular, is where I find the most solace. Unlike many forms of cooking which allow for a degree of improvisation, baking demands precision. It’s less forgiving, and that’s precisely why it appeals when I need control. There’s no room for vague estimations or ‘a pinch of this’; everything needs to be measured accurately, timed meticulously, and executed with focus. – The rigid rules become comforting boundaries. This isn’t about creativity; it’s about following instructions, and doing so successfully. It’s a demonstrable win in a world where wins feel scarce.
The science behind baking is also deeply satisfying. Understanding how ingredients interact – the leavening power of baking soda, the emulsifying effect of butter, the structural role of gluten – feels like unlocking a secret code. It transforms the act of baking from a simple task into an intellectual exercise. And then there’s the anticipation. The wait for something to rise, to brown, to transform in the oven… it forces you to slow down and be present, even if only for a short while. When that timer finally goes off and you pull out a perfectly golden loaf of bread or a batch of chewy cookies, the sense of accomplishment is immense. It’s proof that you made this happen.
The recipes I gravitate towards in these moments are typically those requiring multiple steps and a degree of technical skill. Sourdough bread is a prime example – the ongoing commitment to feeding the starter, the careful monitoring of fermentation, the shaping and scoring… it’s a project that demands patience and attention, and the reward—a crusty loaf with an airy crumb—is well worth the effort. Similarly, macarons are notoriously tricky, requiring precise macaronage (the folding of almond flour and sugar into meringue) and consistent oven temperatures. But mastering them feels like conquering a small mountain.
Slow Food as Self-Care
This isn’t about rushing through a recipe; it’s about savoring each stage. Taking the time to properly knead dough, carefully chop vegetables, or gently fold in ingredients is an act of self-care. It forces you to disconnect from the external pressures and focus on the present moment. – Mindfulness doesn’t always require meditation cushions and guided breathing exercises; it can be found in the simple act of preparing a meal with intention. It’s about acknowledging the sensory experience – the smell of cinnamon, the feel of flour between your fingers, the sound of sizzling onions.
The process itself becomes restorative. The rhythmic motions of chopping, stirring, and kneading are almost meditative, allowing you to quieten racing thoughts and find a sense of calm. It’s a physical activity that grounds you in your body, reminding you that you’re capable of creating something tangible and nourishing. And the act of slowing down is particularly valuable in our fast-paced world where we’re constantly bombarded with stimulation and demands on our time.
Furthermore, it shifts the focus inward. Instead of dwelling on things outside of your control, you’re directing your energy towards a task that you can control. This can be incredibly empowering, especially when feeling overwhelmed or helpless. It’s about reclaiming agency and reminding yourself that even in the midst of chaos, you have the ability to create something positive.
The Ritualistic Nature of Soup Making
There is something inherently comforting about soup. Perhaps it’s a primal connection to nurturing, warmth, and nourishment. But for me, making soup when I need control isn’t just about the end result; it’s about the ritual itself. Starting with a simple base – onions, carrots, celery – and gradually building layers of flavor is an incredibly satisfying process. – It allows for both precision and flexibility. You can follow a recipe as a guideline, but also adapt it to your own tastes and preferences.
Soup making demands patience. The slow simmering of ingredients, the gradual deepening of flavors… it’s a lesson in delayed gratification. Unlike many quick meals that are ready in minutes, soup takes time – time to develop, time to meld, time to become something truly special. And during that process, you’re fully engaged, constantly tasting and adjusting, ensuring that every element is perfectly balanced. This active involvement fosters a sense of ownership and control over the final product.
I often opt for recipes that involve multiple stages – roasting vegetables to intensify their flavor before adding them to the pot, making homemade stock from leftover bones or vegetable scraps, carefully layering spices to create a complex aroma. These extra steps aren’t about complexity; they’re about extending the process and maximizing the sense of accomplishment. And when you finally sit down with a bowl of warm, fragrant soup, knowing that you created it from scratch, it’s an incredibly grounding experience.
The Simplicity of One-Pan Meals
While precision baking and ritualistic soup making are deeply restorative, sometimes I need something even simpler – something that requires minimal effort and offers immediate results. That’s where one-pan meals come in. – These aren’t about culinary artistry; they’re about efficiency and ease. They represent a streamlined approach to cooking, minimizing the number of steps and reducing the potential for things to go wrong.
The beauty of a one-pan meal lies in its simplicity. All you need is a single pan – a cast iron skillet, a roasting dish, or even a large baking sheet – and a few basic ingredients. Everything cooks together, eliminating the need for multiple pots and pans and reducing cleanup time. This streamlined approach feels incredibly liberating when I’m feeling overwhelmed; it’s a visual representation of simplifying my life. There is an inherent sense of control in being able to manage all aspects of the meal within a confined space.
My go-to one-pan meals are typically variations on roasted vegetables and protein. Chicken thighs with potatoes, rosemary, and lemon; salmon with asparagus and cherry tomatoes; or a simple medley of seasonal vegetables tossed with olive oil and herbs. The recipes are straightforward, the instructions are clear, and the results are consistently satisfying. And because they require so little effort, I can focus on other things – reading a book, listening to music, or simply relaxing – while the meal cooks itself in the oven.
If you’re struggling with similar feelings of powerlessness, consider exploring meal plan options that can offer structure and support. Or if IBS is impacting your ability to eat comfortably, learning about ibs diet can be a great starting point.
This is about finding your recipes – the ones that resonate with you and offer a sense of calm and control. It’s not about becoming a master chef; it’s about using cooking as a tool for self-care and restoration. The kitchen isn’t just a place to prepare food; it’s a sanctuary where you can reclaim your agency, quieten your mind, and nourish both body and soul. If finding energy is a struggle when feeling unwell, stay nourished with these tips. And for those times when life feels overwhelming, remember there are ways to manage pcos even on your busiest days.
