Nutrition

Dessert is not an enemy. It is the last word of the day. That moment when you say to yourself: “I’ve lived. I’ve made it. I’m worthy.”

The first step is sugar. Not refined. Not white. Take honey. Or coconut sugar. Or date paste. They’re not “less caloric.” They’re more alive. They contain vitamins. They contain flavor. They contain history.

The second is fat. Not margarine. Not vegetable oil. Take coconut oil. Or cocoa butter. Or grass-fed butter. It doesn’t “harm.” It satiates. It gives a feeling of wholeness.

The third is fruit. Not jam. Not canned. Take berries. Fresh. Ripe. With tiny seeds. Let them be sweet and sour. This is nature. This is not artificial.

Fourth, nuts. Not roasted. Not salted. Take almonds, hazelnuts, walnuts. Chop them yourself. Let them be crunchy. This is texture. This is a reminder that life isn’t just sweet. It’s also hard. And complex.

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Rice is not just a grain. It is a map of the world. In Japan, it is cooked with ice water. In India, with turmeric and ginger. In Italy, with wine and butter. In Thailand, with lime and chili. Every bite is a culture. Every grain is a memory.

The first step is choice. Not white, not cheap. Take brown rice. Or basmati. Or Japanese shinkoku. Each has its own. Brown rice is with earth. Basmati is with wind. Shinkoku is with silence.

The second is rinsing. Rinse the rice 5-7 times. Until the water runs clear. This is not just cleaning. It is liberation. You are washing away the dust. You are washing away the past. You are preparing for the new.

The third is water. The ratio is 1:1.2. Not 1:2. Not 1:1. 1:1.2. This is the golden mean. Too much, and the rice will fall apart. Too little, and it will be dry. Like love. Not too much. Not too little. Just enough.

Fourth: soaking. Let it sit for 30 minutes. This is optional. But if you do, the rice will be more tender. Like someone who thought for a moment before answering.

Fifth: cooking. Pour in the water. Add a pinch of salt. Close the lid. Do not open. Do not stir. Give it inner silence. 15 minutes: over the fire. 10 minutes: under a towel. This is a gradual unfolding.

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Soup is the only dish that doesn’t require celebration. It’s for weekdays. For hard days. For those who can’t cook anything but water and salt.

The first step is the base. Not broth from a packet. Not cubes. Take a bone. Beef, chicken, pork. Place it in a saucepan. Add onion, carrot, celery. Pour in water. Bring to a boil. Skim off any foam. This isn’t cooking. This is cleansing.

The second is time. At least 4 hours. 8 is better. Let the bones give everything they have: collagen, minerals, flavor. This isn’t food. This is medicine. Collagen is skin. It’s joints. It’s inner silence.

The third is vegetables. Don’t just “cut.” Cut with love. Carrots – into thin slices. Onions – into half rings. Garlic – whole cloves. Let them cook without falling apart. Let them hold their shape. Let them be witnesses.

Fourth – herbs. Parsley, dill, basil – add them at the end. Not at the beginning. They are not ingredients. They are breath. Their aroma is the soup’s final kiss.

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The hamburger isn’t the enemy. It’s a symbol. A symbol of simplicity. A symbol of pleasure. But in the world of fast food, it’s become a chemical phantom: sauces with thickeners, buns with preservatives, patties made from ground meat processed 17 times.

The perfect hamburger is the opposite. It’s when you can feel the meat. When you hear the crunch of the bun. When you see a drop of sauce running down your fingers.

The first step is the meat. Not “ground meat.” Not “80/20 beef.” Take a piece of sirloin or beef chuck. Mince it yourself. Twice. Don’t over-process it. Leave the texture. The meat should be palpable. Not like a paste. Like living meat.

The second step is salt and pepper. That’s it. No spices. No marinades. Add salt 10 minutes before frying. Add pepper immediately after. Too early, and the meat will release juices. Too late, and it won’t soak up the flavor. Everything needs to be done in the moment.

Third, frying. Heat the pan until it starts smoking. Add the patty. Don’t press down. Don’t flip it every 30 seconds. Let it settle. A crust will form—golden and crispy. Only then, flip it. Once. Twice, max.

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Bread isn’t a product. It’s a ritual. When you mix flour, water, salt, and yeast, you’re not cooking. You’re reconnecting. With your ancestors who baked bread over a fire. With your grandmother who kneaded the dough in the morning while the roosters crowed. With yourself—in the moment when time stands still.

The first step is flour. Not just any flour. Not white, not processed. Look for whole grain, with bran, with the scent of earth. It’s not “healthier”—it’s alive. It contains microorganisms that will work with you. They’re not passive. They’re accomplices. They eat the starch. They release gas. And they make breath out of the dough.

The second is water. Not boiled. Not chlorinated. Warm, like the morning. It’s not a solvent. It’s a conductor. It absorbs the flavors of the flour, transfers them to the yeast, and awakens them. If the water is too cold, the dough will go dormant. Too hot, it will kill it. Everything must be in balance.

Third, salt. Not just for flavor. It’s a controller. It slows fermentation. It strengthens the fiber. It gives the dough structure. Without it, the bread will be flat, featureless, like paper. Salt is the boundary between chaos and order.

Fourth, time. Not two hours. Not four. But eighteen. Yeast takes its time. It doesn’t work on a schedule. It works when it’s warm, when it’s calm. You can’t rush it. You can only wait. And in this waiting lies the essence of bread. You learn to be with yourself.

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