You ever scroll through social media and see one of those cooking videos where the guy uses tweezers to place a single microgreen on top of a foam that took three days to make? The music is dramatic. The lighting is perfect. And somewhere in the middle of it, they add something called “xanthan gum” and you realize you don’t even know what aisle that lives in.
I get it. We live in the age of content. And food content sells. But somewhere along the way, we started confusing “complicated” with “good.” We started thinking that if a recipe doesn’t require a trip to three specialty stores and a degree in chemistry, it must be boring.
That’s bullshit. And I’m here to tell you why.
The Caveman Was Onto Something
Here’s a thought experiment for you. Go back in time about ten thousand years. You just killed something, or maybe you found some berries, or you traded a rock for a piece of meat. You put that meat near fire. You ate it. You were happy.
Now fast forward to today. You want to make a “simple” weeknight dinner. The recipe calls for harissa paste, preserved lemons, coconut aminos, and something called “asafoetida” which you’re pretty sure is a spell from Harry Potter. You spend forty five minutes driving to the “good” grocery store. You spend eighty bucks. You get home and realize you forgot the microplaned unicorn tears. Dinner is at nine. You’re exhausted. The food is fine, I guess.
This is not progress.
The best food in human history was cooked with fire, salt, and patience. That’s it. That’s the list. Everything else is just window dressing. And yeah, I like window dressing as much as the next guy. A good sauce. A interesting spice. Those things have their place. But they’re supposed to be the supporting cast, not the star of the show.
Steak Doesn’t Need Your Help
Let’s use steak as the example, because steak is sacred and if we can’t agree on steak we can’t agree on anything.
I’ve seen recipes online for steak that involve butter basting with rosemary and thyme, garlic confit, red wine reductions, compound butters, and finishing salts from some mine in Wales that only opens during the full moon. And look, I’ve made steak like that. It’s good. It’s fancy. It impresses dates.
But here’s the secret the internet doesn’t want you to know. A properly cooked steak with nothing but salt and pepper is just as good. Better, actually, because you can actually taste the beef. You can taste the fat. You can taste the fire. All that other stuff is just… noise.
I learned this from a old school butcher in Kansas City about ten years ago. Guy had hands like cinder blocks and a mustache that could filter water. He told me, “Son, if you need more than salt to make a steak taste good, you bought the wrong steak.” He wasn’t wrong. A good cut of beef, cooked right, is a perfect thing. Don’t gild the lily.
The BBQ Parallel
Same thing applies to barbecue, maybe even more so. Real barbecue purists will tell you that great ‘que is about three things: meat, fire, and time. Rubs are fine. Sauces are fine. But they’re accessories. They’re not the main event.
I’ve been to joints in Texas where the brisket has nothing but salt and pepper on it. Looks like a meteorite. Tastes like heaven. You don’t need a “tangy vinegar mop sauce with Carolina roots and a hint of apple.” You need good meat and someone who knows how to tend a fire.
Same with ribs. Same with pulled pork. Same with sausage. The best stuff stands alone. If you’re drowning your meat in sauce, you’re hiding something. Either you messed up the cook or you started with garbage meat. Either way, more sauce isn’t the answer.
The Grocery Store Trap
Part of the problem is how we shop now. Walk into a modern grocery store and the options are overwhelming. Forty kinds of hot sauce. Twenty kinds of salt. A whole aisle for “international” stuff that’s just a mishmash of everything. It’s designed to make you feel like you need all of it.
You don’t.
My kitchen pantry looks like it belongs to a minimalist with good taste. Salt. Pepper. Garlic powder. Onion powder. Paprika. Cayenne. Olive oil. Vegetable oil. Vinegar. Soy sauce. Hot sauce. That’s about it. If a recipe calls for something that isn’t in that list, I think real hard about whether I actually want to make it. Most of the time, the answer is no.
And here’s the thing. You can cook almost anything with that list. You can grill. You can smoke. You can sauté. You can roast. You can make sauces and marinades and rubs. You can feed a family or a crowd. You don’t need sumac. You don’t need tamarind paste. You don need yuzu kosho. You need fundamentals.
The Girlfriend Test
I got a buddy, we’ll call him Dave, who loves to cook complicated stuff. Guy will spend all day on a single dish. Braised lamb shanks with a red wine reduction and some kind of puree that involves a sieve and cheesecloth. It’s impressive. It really is.
But here’s the funny part. When Dave has people over, the thing that disappears first is never the fancy dish. It’s the burgers he threw on the grill at the last minute because “people need to eat while they wait.” It’s the simple sausage he picked up from the local butcher and just… grilled. It’s the store bought chips and the dip he made in five minutes with sour cream and a packet of seasoning.
Why? Because simple food tastes like good memories. It tastes like backyard barbecues and tailgates and summer afternoons. It doesn’t feel like work. It feels like living.
Also, and I say this with love, women appreciate simple cooking. They really do. You know what’s more attractive than a guy who spent six hours making a complicated risotto? A guy who can grill a perfect steak, pour a glass of whiskey, and actually sit down and talk to her instead of hovering over a stove. Just saying.
The Three Recipe Rule
I’ve developed a personal rule over the years. I call it the Three Recipe Rule. If you want to cook something, find three different recipes for it. Read them all. Then ignore them.
Here’s what I mean. You’re not looking for the exact ingredient list. You’re looking for the pattern. What do all three recipes agree on? That’s the core. That’s the thing you actually need. Everything else is just one cook’s opinion. If two recipes call for garlic and one doesn’t, keep the garlic. If one recipe calls for saffron and the other two don’t mention it, skip the saffron. It’s probably not essential.
Then cook it your way. Use your judgment. Trust your eyes and your nose and your tongue. That’s how people cooked for thousands of years before the internet told them they were doing it wrong.
The Exceptions That Prove the Rule
Now look. I’m not a barbarian. There are dishes that genuinely need complexity. A good gumbo has a million things in it and that’s the point. A proper chili, the kind you eat at a cookoff, has layers and depth and secrets. Some barbecue rubs have fifteen ingredients and they’re better for it. I get it.
But those are special occasion foods. They’re not Tuesday night. They’re not “I just got home from work and I’m hungry” foods. And the mistake we make is treating every meal like it needs to be that level of production. It doesn’t. Most meals just need to be edible, satisfying, and maybe a little enjoyable. That’s the bar. That’s a low bar. And you can clear it with one hand tied behind your back if you stop overthinking.
The Gear Problem
While we’re at it, let’s talk about gear. You don’t need a $400 knife. You don’t need a smoker that connects to WiFi. You don need a Dutch oven that costs as much as a car payment. You need a sharp knife, a heavy pan, and a heat source. Everything else is marketing.
I’ve cooked some of the best meals of my life on a $20 cast iron skillet from a garage sale. I’ve grilled perfect chicken on a kettle grill that cost less than a tank of gas. I’ve smoked brisket on an offset that looked like it survived a war. The gear doesn’t cook. You cook. The gear just helps.
Back to Basics
So here’s my challenge to you. Next time you’re thinking about what to cook, start simple. Pick one thing. A steak. A burger. A chicken thigh. A sausage. A piece of fish. Whatever. Season it simply. Salt at least. Pepper if you want. Maybe a little garlic powder if you’re feeling wild. Then cook it over fire until it’s done. Not until a recipe says it’s done. Until it looks done and smells done and feels done.
Eat it. Pay attention. Taste the actual food. Not the sauce. Not the marinade. Not the fancy rub. The food. That’s the whole point. Everything else is just noise.
And you know what? You’ll probably love it. Because simple food, done right, is hard to beat. It’s why we grill. It’s why we gather. It’s why we cook in the first place. Not to impress strangers on the internet. To feed the people we like and enjoy the time we have. That’s it. That’s enough.
