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I love Sundays. But not the reason you might think.

I love them for how uncomplicated yet satisfying they can be, how frugal yet nourishing.

I love them because I can cook without an agenda, and for the dish ideas that come to me serendipitously.

So does writing. For some reason, on Sundays, both come effortlessly and without pretensions.

I’ve been thinking a lot about how I can create the space for this to happen more during the week as well, and the moment that thought crystallised in my mind, I felt how it was detracting from the main point.

It’s like I was trying to make it a task, something that I ought to do, rather than letting things come into being by themselves, organically.

So I willed my mind to return to the present moment.

With summer now in full force, I can enjoy all the wonderful, juicy fruits and vegetables, pairing them with herbs and cheeses, deli meats and prosciutto, swapping them in salads or creating my favourite platters.

Three of my favourite summer dishes (and ones I usually enjoy on Sundays) are burrata salads, shrimp Niçoise salads, and baked salmon with mango salsa served over a bed of basmati rice.

I became obsessed with the latter last summer when I came up with the idea for it. It’s delicious, nutritious, and oh so easy to put together. Even the fussiest eater will dare to try it, I wager.

What is your favourite summer dish? Let me know in the comments.

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Now, onto the recipe.

Baked salmon with mango salsa served over a bed of basmati rice.

Serves: 2

Prep time: 10 mins

Cooking time: 20-25 mins

Ingredients

• 2 medium-sized salmon fillets

• Dried mixed herbs (Italian, Provence, or any other herbs mix you prefer)

• Salt and freshly ground black pepper to season

• Olive oil to drizzle

• Lemon juice from a quarter of a lemon

• 100g basmati rice

• Tamari soy sauce to serve

For the salsa

• 1/2 medium mango

• 1 medium - large avocado

• 1 medium shallot

• 15-20 cherry tomatoes

• A handful of fresh cilantro

• 1-2 tablespoons of olive oil

• juice of half a lemon, lime works as well

• 1 jalapeno (optional)

Method

1. Preheat the oven to 180ºC fan.

2. Wash and pat dry the salmon fillets, then place them on a baking tray and season with salt, pepper, herbs, a drizzle of olive oil, and a squeeze of lemon juice.

3. Transfer the tray to the oven and bake for 20-25 minutes (max), making sure the fillets stay juicy and don’t become dry.

4. In the meantime, cut the mango, avocado, and cherry tomatoes into small cubes and drizzle with lemon juice, then mix them well. Dice the shallot (you can also cut it julienne if you prefer) and add it to the bowl. Then wash and cut the cilantro and add it to the bowl. Add the olive oil and mix well. Cover the bowl with foil, then place it in the fridge while the fish is baking.

5. Prepare the basmati rice according to the package instructions.

6. Assemble the bowl as in the image above and drizzle with tamari soy sauce to serve.

As always, thank you for reading Salt, Pepper, Stories. Try the recipe, and if this post helped you, give it a heart, comment or share it with someone who is on the hunt for delicious summer recipes.

xx, Ana

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That conversation spanned topics from food and food waste to climate change, how to be organised, and more. I asked them how they came to pack food on a flight, and they told me they’ve always done that. As we conversed, I thought of their attitude as a way of life rather than something particular about food. Finding ways to stay in good health seemed like a no-brainer to them.

And the Norwegian couple was not alone in this.

When I was working in the Netherlands and travelling a lot, I noticed this pattern among Dutch people too, especially those travelling with young children. It was common to see a toddler holding a small pot and munching on baby cucumbers, carrots, cherry tomatoes, or berries while on a plane.

I was musing on this fact when I realised their supermarket system makes this possible. Most supermarkets, especially in airports, provide plenty of ready-to-go healthy options, from packages with veggies and hummus to ones with berries, yoghurt, and seeds. These food options are also placed at eye level on the shelves, making the decision process easy for customers, which is what they need, especially when they’re trying to make a decision and are pressed for time.

Throughout the years, many of my friends have asked me how I eat well while travelling. “Define well,” I always tell them.

“You know, the sort of healthy foods you always eat”, they reply.

I sometimes laugh at this retort because I’m notorious for bringing with me foods people won’t expect to see on a flight, a mountain peak, or a hike, for that matter. Ask Chris, my friend, who, years after the fact, is still teasing me about bringing an avocado with me on a hike and having the audacity to cut it and eat it on the mountain top.

Or ask Radu, my other friend, with whom I have travelled a lot and who, like me, still gets curious stares when he opens his homemade sandwich on a plane or, worse, peels and eats a hard-boiled egg while munching on crunchy pieces of bell pepper.

As with everything, packing home-prepped food for my flights started with friction. About five years ago, just a month before the madness of the pandemic began, I was going on a ski trip, the last of that sort that year (or any sort, in 2020). I was fed up with missing breakfast on early flights and hated the kind of food served on a plane. Even on economy flights, most of the time, I left it untouched.

That’s because it was not only unhealthy, but also full of chemicals, emulsifiers, xanthan gums, and obscure oils. It also tasted like disappointment and disaster most of the time I tried it (at least when I dared to try it, it did).

So I resolved to find a way to fix this, thinking what could I take with me that would (mostly) keep fresh and won’t upset my stomach. The options I go for nowadays are things I’d often have at home too, like boiled eggs and some veggies, panini or sandwiches that are not super perishable, fruits and nuts, and sometimes taralli (when I don’t forget to buy them and take them with me). Dried foods like taralli help with an upset tummy, especially on longer flights.

One of the recipes I love to prepare and take with me, which makes for a hearty breakfast, is a chicken, mozzarella, and pesto sandwich. As for the next two weeks, I will be at my sister’s and have promised to cook her a thing or two, I sneaked this recipe through the ones I decided to prepare for her too.

This sandwich ticks all the boxes for taste, crunch, and flavour. It keeps me full for at least four hours and is also great for my blood sugar levels, so it’s body-approved.

To ensure it doesn’t get soggy, I assemble it before leaving home for my flight, but I prepare the chicken and the pesto the night before. I like to slice some tomatoes and layer them over some big fresh salad leaves for added crunch.

Imagine this: the base, a slice of sourdough bread, toasted and spread with homemade pesto, layered with slices of tomato, mozzarella, chicken, and salad, another slice of tomato, and on top, the second slice of sourdough bread, also spread with pesto.

Preparing this kind of sandwich reminds me of Chetna and her series “Between the Slices,” which I love.

What sandwich recipe holds a special meaning for you? Leave a comment and share below!

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Chicken mozzarella pesto panini

When I have this at home, and everything is freshly made and the chicken is hot from the pan, this panini, as Italians call it, is to die for.

Serves:2

Prep time: 15 mins

Cooking time: 15 min

Ingredients

400g chicken breast

1 tablespoon olive oil

The juice of 1/2 a small to medium lemon

Provence or Italian herbs to season

Salt and pepper to season

For the pesto

• 30 basil leaves

• 1 garlic clove

• 25 g grated Parmesan

• 35-45 ml extra virgin olive oil ( you can swap it for another oil of choice)

• 2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice

• 25-30g pine nuts, toasted

• Salt and freshly ground pepper to season

Method

1. Cut the chicken breast lengthwise into thin pieces and place them on a big wooden cutting board. Underneath the cutting board, place a cotton kitchen towel to prevent slipping.

2. Cover the meat with a baking sheet and tenderise it with a rolling pin. Then, place it in a bowl and season well with herbs of choice, salt and pepper, olive oil or ghee, and lemon juice. Let it sit for about 5-10 minutes so the meat absorbs all the flavours.

3. Place a pan on high-medium heat, and when it’s hot, add a tablespoon of ghee and the chicken. Cook it until golden-brown on both sides, ensuring it is not overcooked. Cooking it this way will keep its juices, and the meat will be tender and tasty.

4. When the meat is done, place your sourdough bread slices and toast them in the meat juices.

5. In a blender or food processor, add the garlic, the toasted pine nuts, and lemon juice and pulse until small pieces of the pine nuts form. We want that for texture and taste.

6. Add the basil, season with salt and pepper, and pulse until combined. Then add the olive oil in steps, and continue blending. Lastly, add the parmesan and pulse again until it combines with the rest of the ingredients.

7. Taste the pesto, adjust the seasoning, and add extra oil if necessary.

8. Spread the pesto on the sourdough bread slices and assemble the sandwich as described in the article. Remove the excess water before slicing the mozzarella so the sandwich doesn’t get soggy.

9. Serve with a fresh side salad, extra avocado slices, or some pickled onion slices.

Let me know in the comments if you try it.

P.S. I hope you enjoy this as much as I did. x

Sultana is bubbly, fun, and in possession of an unbounded, toddler-like energy. Maybe this is what having a six-year-old son does to you—I don’t know. She consumes life with a voracity and appetite that leave me in awe. Whether she’s snapping pictures of a quiet street lined with beautiful houses, basking in the lovely London sun on my terrace, or gobbling down food we just cooked, she does everything with all her might.

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On Friday afternoon, when we arrived at my London flat (which is currently in the midst of chaos and boxes after the painting job), the only thing she wanted was to have a ciggie on the terrace, bask in the sun, and enjoy some great food.

While I fretted about cleaning up just enough and making space for us to move around, she remained unfazed by all the boxes and chaos, and rather focused on the present moment and our lively conversations. She found the flat beautiful in its state of flux, with all its piles of boxes. I realized she saw this as an opportunity for photos and “urban art”, the way light fell on objects and spaces, rather than as chaos.

Of course, it was perfectly normal for the flat to be in such a state after three weeks of painting; it was foolish of me to expect to find it clean and orderly. Experiencing her attitude and perspective towards the matter, I suddenly relaxed and accepted the situation for what it was, rather than trying to change it.

Throughout the day, she asked if I needed help here and there. Although a critical voice in my head insisted, “You don’t ask guests to do anything,” I let her help anyway. My new way of thinking knew better.

Laughing, we reminisced about a similar situation shortly after she had given birth to her son Aaron, when her house was in a similar state (albeit not being repainted). When I visited her three days into motherhood, I took in the state of the house and thought, “Yes, this is how a house with a new baby looks like.” I set to work cleaning and tidying while she was feeding him. When she finished, she came to apologize for the “mess,” and I remember telling her, “Are you kidding? This house has such liveliness to it, you can see someone is actually living here.”

Then she relaxed.

On Friday night, I took her to Oivita pizzeria, where she had a blast. And, of course, her much-demanded Aperol spritz. I was let know that this will become a regular dinner spot whenever she visited me in London.

On Saturday, we went to a Tony Ann concert at the Barbican with Pauline (another friend of mine), and it’s safe to say the experience was mind-blowing. Tony was touring with Arkai, a band from New York whose violinist and cellist are incredibly talented.

At some point during the concert, I felt my body dissolve into the music. I was so entranced and swept up in the rush of emotions that it felt like an energy was buzzing in every single cell of my body. That’s the only way I can describe it. Sultana seemed to have experienced something of the sort, too, and we both left the concert hall asking, “What the heck just happened there?”

It was so beautiful it hurt.

While riding this wave of intense emotion, I found myself thinking about art—what defines something as art and how we collectively come to call something art. I realised that if you look closely enough, every corner of life is art. It’s how nature envisioned everything around us, even the grotesque. Art is about harmony, but it is also about imperfection and completeness. Ultimately, art is in the eye of the beholder.

I sometimes laugh at the idea of having everything so curated and aesthetically pleasing, especially when I catch myself in the act of perfectionism on the food photos I take for my posts. Reality and life simply don’t work that way; they’re always moving and transforming. So are dishes, if you think about it: they start as one thing and, over time, transform and become multilayered.

Before Sultana booked her ticket to London, she had two main requests: that I show her at least one of my recipes and promise to spoil her with great food.

Your “art food”, she said.

Before she arrived, I was fretting about what to cook for her during our two full days together, sifting through the myriad recipes in my album. As always, the universe had its ways, and things fell into place naturally.

On Saturday afternoon, after a full day of walking the city, all we craved was a warm, cosy soup to wash away our tiredness and lack of sleep from the night before.

So, I set myself to the task. I had long promised her a recipe that required her to “just add water,” and I believe I delivered on that promise. Sultana couldn’t believe how simple and nutritious this recipe was to make.

Her requests? Marked as done and done.

And now, to the soup recipe.

Poussin soup

Serves: 6

Prep time: 10 minutes

Cooking time: 45-60 mins

Ingredients

2.5 liters of water (or 2 L of water and 500 mL of chicken/vegetable stock)

1 Gressingham poussin or similar

250g shiitake mushrooms or a mix of mushrooms

2-3 medium - large carrots

1 medium-sized parsnip (optional)

2 celery stalks

1 small bunch of parsley

1 small piece of ginger (1-2 cm)

1/4 of a leek stalk

2 medium garlic cloves

1 big bay leaf (or two small ones)

1/2 teaspoon fennel seeds

1/2 teaspoon cumin seeds

1/4 to 1/2 teaspoon of turmeric powder (depending on your taste)

Salt and freshly ground pepper to season

1 full teaspoon of ghee

Method

1. Wash and peel all the root vegetables, including the ginger.

2. Cut the celery stalks, leek, carrots, and parsnip julienne, smash the garlic after peeling it to release its flavour, and add everything to a pot. Due to the even heat distribution, I prefer a Dutch oven for this soup.

3. Add the poussin to the vegetables, followed by the seeds, spices, bay leaves, and ghee, and season well with salt and pepper.

4. Add water and set the pot on medium heat with the lid on. When the soup reaches the boiling point (about 20 minutes in), turn the stove to low—medium heat so the vegetables don’t overcook.

5. In the meantime, wash and pat dry the mushrooms. Slice them and fry them in a pan with a tiny amount of ghee or oil, and when they’re done, add them to the soup. This step should be done when the vegetables and poussin are done.

6. Wash and finely cut the parsley, then add it to the soup. Set the stove to off, and let the soup cool for about 10 minutes before serving.

7. Serve with toasted bread and butter.

P.S. Let me know if you try this recipe.

xx, Ana

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This week, I experienced a surge of feeling—the kind that you get when you see your friends or family after a long time, making it feel like coming home and evoking a giddy excitement.

I also experienced how vital the closeness, connection, and truth of a deep friendship are for my body and mind. How hugs can be as healing as a bowl of warm soup at the right time, how smiles penetrate tissues and cells with the same depth that nutrients do, and how shared meals have a way of bringing us together like nothing else.

I didn't realise until today how much I had missed this. In the rush of the past weeks of packing, sorting, and cleaning the flat, I hadn't even had time to think about it. Coming to my homeland almost always triggers a shift in my body's energy, a buzzing sensation that I experience nowhere else.

Through this, I realized that, although I need and enjoy spending time alone, I also crave deep connections. And I started wondering, “How do you cultivate connection when you're far away from everyone?” One reason I am writing this newsletter is to connect with you and them, to bridge the physical distance between us, and to hopefully share words that resonate with your experience and theirs.

What about you? How do you nurture your meaningful connections with your loved ones across distance? What practices have you found helpful in maintaining strong bonds, even when you can't share the same physical space? Let me know in the comments.

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The nourishment of connection

We often regard food as sustenance, as the engine that keeps our bodies running. I know I’m one to plan meals, research nutrients, and obsess over the origin of ingredients, as well as how they are grown.

Yet, how often do we apply the same intentionality to connection, to ourselves, to other people? To the way we feed our minds and souls through the people we keep close to us?

While I usually share photos like the one below in WhatsApp groups with my closest friends, I’ve noticed that when I'm far away from them and we’re not physically together to enjoy a dish, I feel a sense of longing that sits right beside my physical appetite, which no amount of delicious food can satisfy.

I now realize that almost every time I do this, it's the connection that I am seeking.

To close that gap, when we meet in person, I like to organize brunches at their homes, where we can all come together to share delicious dishes, tell stories, and connect. Earlier today, as I sat across from them, observing their changing expressions during our conversation and listening to the rhythm of their laughter while my friend Diana shared stories about her sage and funny three-year-old son, I felt a sense of, "Yes, this is exactly what I needed."

Cultivating connection across distance

I've noticed how these reunions bring back a part of myself through the mirror of those who have known me the deepest—parts of myself that sometimes become blurry at the edges in isolation. References to shared history, particular interests, or things we care about are all a kind of homecoming.

This weekend has reminded me that we all are, fundamentally, beings of connection. That it doesn’t matter how independent you are, how capable of solitude, there remains in you this primary need to be seen, known, welcomed, to connect.

So, I return to my original question: “How do we cultivate connection when we're far away?” Beyond the apparent solution of calls and messages, I think cultivating connection across distances requires a kind of active remembering. 

It’s about carrying people in your thoughts and sharing your real life with them—the good, the bad, the ugly, the ordinary Wednesdays, and the not-so-Instagram-worthy dishes. Perhaps most importantly, it's about being vulnerable enough to say, "I missed you," without qualification, acknowledging that hunger for connection without diminishing it or brushing it aside.

Because at the end of the day, friendship and connection are truly as vital as food – they sustain us in ways both visible and invisible, nourish parts of ourselves that would otherwise wither in isolation.

Tonight (it’s 8:25 p.m. as I write this), I’d like to share an effortless yet delicious sea bream recipe. All you’ll need are a few ingredients you most likely already have at hand.

We had it at the brunch/dinner yesterday evening, and everyone loved the zesty, lemony, fresh taste of the fish baked this way.

Oven-baked sea bream on a bed of lemon slices

Serves:6

Prep time: 5 mins

Cooking time: 20-25 mins

Ingredients

• 3-4 medium sized sea breams

• Dried mixed herbs (Italian, Provence, or any other herbs mix you prefer)

• Salt to season (Maldon, Himalayan salt, or regular salt also works)

• Freshly ground black pepper

• Olive oil to drizzle

Method

1. Preheat the oven to 160ºC fan.

2. Wash and slice the lemons, then arrange them on a baking tray to create a bed of lemons. Season with salt, pepper, and a drizzle of olive oil, and add the herbs.

3. Wash, pat dry, and cut the fish into chunks of 3-4 cm in size. Arrange them on the lemon bed and season with your choice of herbs, salt, pepper, and a bit of olive oil (not too much, as the sea bream is an oily fish anyway).

4. Transfer the tray to the oven and bake for 20-25 minutes, or until the meat is tender and cooked through.

5. Serve with baked potatoes, a fresh salad, or any other side dish of choice.

P.S. Let me know in the comments if you try it.

xx, Ana

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On memories and flavours and how they transport me to distant shores

There are moments—often in the evenings—while chopping veggies at the kitchen counter or stirring a simmering pot on the stove when I find myself transported to a place I have been before.

It seems to happen without warning— a scent, a taste, even the clinking of glasses or cutlery on a plate heard from neighbouring flats, the way the evening sunlight slants across my cutting board—and suddenly, I’m no longer in my London flat. I’m sitting at a rickety, low table in a Moroccan eating place, sharing tajine with my friends, the air fragrant with cardamon and cloves. Or I’m in a Nanjing Chinese restaurant, chopsticks hovering over a bowl of spicy beef soup, laughing with my teammates. Or I’m watching my mom’s hands, soft and sure, shaping little flatbreads near our kitchen stove.

Cooking, for me, is as much about food as it is about other cultures, time travel, and the memories I want to preserve.

This alchemy of memories and flavours begins with something almost insignificant. The citrusy punch of sumac in my small spice jars, and I’m back in Istanbul’s bazaar, bartering with a vendor whose laugh rattles like cumin seeds in a tin. The sizzle of olive oil hitting a pan, and I’m 24 again, in an Amsterdam student hotel kitchen, laughing with my friend Carlota while trying to flip a heavy Spanish omelet without breaking it and making a mess on the stove.

I was thinking these days how some dishes I developed have become my favourites, and in my quest to trace that back to when it happened, I always get to some memory, some vivid sense of something.

I used to wonder why I craved my mom’s white whipped bean salad on a random Tuesday or why cooking a stir fry made me cough, remembering the times I used to eat dinner with my Chinese colleagues.

But then I understood—our senses are archivists. They store memories as they store flavours. Everything written in fragments of my memory is also impregnated in my senses.

A single bite of something can unwind moments on film: the first time I tasted grilled octopus on a tiny beach in Tenerife, where I could sit with my feet in the sea; the sticky-fingered joy of eating cannoli in Rome with my friend Sultana at 11 p.m.; the quiet comfort of a bowl of soup after a full day of skiing in the Swiss Alps.

What triggers your most precious memories? Let me know in the comments.

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Recipes as postcards

Many of my favorite dishes came to life this way—not from cookbooks but from collisions with places and people. A hearty slice of sourdough bread smothered in herb butter? That’s a love letter to a Saint-Rémy-lès-Chevreuse farmhouse where I’d scribble in my notebook while waiting for mussels. A fiery Shaksuka? A souvenir from Israel’s loud bar, where the noise of the people mingled with the food flavours. These dishes are my postcards. Some don’t aim for authenticity; they’re rather impressions, blurred at the edges by time, travelling, and longing.

Take Niçoise salad—a classic, yes, but filtered through my own wanderings. I first had it in Nice, circa 2015, at a small bistro, where the waiter conversed with me in heavily accented French. The original version stood perfect: white tuna, briny olives, and eggs like golden suns.

Yet, over the years, it’s changed. I swapped the raw veggies for oven-baked ones to perfection, like these lovely radishes and potatoes. They are kinder on my digestive system, and my gut approves as well.

For variety, I sometimes substitute oven-charred asparagus for green beans because I once had it that way in Provence, in a courtyard where the owner’s dog had been snoring under my table. There’s no right or wrong with this salad because it is very forgiving, so the recipe I’m sharing is a mix of the original and my own additions or substitutions.

Niçoise salad with oven-baked potatoes and radishes

Serves:2

Prep time: 15 mins

Cooking time: 30 mins

Ingredients

For the salad

• Half of a salad of your choice (cos, romaine, lettuce, etc), which will be used as the base

• 1-2 cans of tuna, drained and broken into chunks

• 2-3 hard-boiled eggs, quartered

• 200 g new potatoes (regular potatoes also work)

• 150 g green beans or asparagus

• 10-12 big green olives, cut in small circles

• 1 tablespoon of capers

• 10 cherry tomatoes, halved or quartered

• 10-12 radishes

• 2-4 springs of dill, finely cut

• Flaky sal (Maldon, Himalayan salt, or regular salt also works)

• Freshly ground black pepper

For the dressing

• 1 1/2 tbsp olive oil

• 2 1/2 tbsp lemon juice

• 1 tsp. Dijon mustard

• 1 small garlic clove, grated(optional)

• Pinch of salt and pepper to season

Method

1. The first step is washing and cutting all your vegetables and boiling the eggs. Cut the olives in small circles, cut the cherry tomatoes in halves, finely dice the dill, and trim the beans (optional, but I usually trim them).

2. Drain the tuna and break it into big chunks.

3. Then, add the potatoes to a pot and cover them with cold water by about 2cm. Add some salt to the pot. Bring to a boil, set your stove on low-medium heat, and simmer uncovered for about 8-10 minutes.

4. Drain the potatoes, and along with the radishes, season with salt, pepper, and a drizzle of olive oil. Bake them in the oven at 160°C (fan) for about 5-10 minutes or until they are done and slightly crispy on the edges. Do not skip this step; it adds a distinct flavor to this salad.

5. In the meantime, blanch the green beans in a pot of boiling water for about 2 - 3 minutes and then in a bowl of ice-cold water for about 1 minute. Drain and pat dry with a paper kitchen towel.

6. Prepare the dressing by adding all the ingredients to a jar and shaking well for about 1 minute.

7. Set the salad base, then assemble the rest of the ingredients: potatoes, green beans, capers, olives, cherry tomatoes, radishes, and dill. Drizzle the dressing over the salad and mix it slowly.

8. Enjoy!

P.S. Let me know in the comments what additions or substitutions you use.

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I once stumbled upon a quote from an interview with Cillian Murphy, saying: “My life is very simple. I read a lot of books, watch a lot of movies, listen to a lot of music, walk the dog, and cook with my family.”

And I couldn’t help but nod. It always seemed to me that the small, simple things, done consistently, are the ones that make the difference.

Lately, I have been thinking a lot about what those things are for me besides the ones I was nodding in agreement with. I realized that last year, when I was going through a tough time, reading, long walks, cooking, and (learning to) rest were the props that kept my head above the water. These seemingly ordinary pursuits—reading, long walks, cooking, and rest—acted as an anchor and formed a rhythm in my life, each nurturing different aspects of my well-being and regulating my nervous system.

What are the simple pursuits that brighten your days? Let me know in the comments.

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Books & reading

I developed a passion for letters when I was about four years old. Soon after, I started scribbling them with crayons, and by the age of six, I already knew how to read. At that age, I often found myself lost in enchanted worlds beyond my own, like Lucy stumbling through the wardrobe into Narnia.

But in my teens, I fell out of love with books due to the rigid school curriculum, which required reading specific books at specific times for exams and schoolwork—an approach I passionately disliked. I preferred discovering stories at my own pace and forming opinions about them without the bias of scholarly expectations. Then, in my early twenties, I fell in love with reading again—and haven’t stopped since. I occasionally take breaks, but I usually read every evening.

A regular occurrence for me is spending Saturday mornings tucked in bed, so engrossed in a book that two hours slip by unnoticed—breakfast forgotten, and my stomach growling.

Reading not only brings me joy, but also improves my focus and writing, and it helps me sleep. On restless nights, when I lie awake in bed and sleep won't come easily, the comfort of knowing a book or my Kindle is within arm's reach is immeasurable—that and the song of a robin, blackbird, or nightingale.

I often carry stories on my walks, musing about what I just read. This interplay of thoughts and walking has become a wellspring of creativity, sparking ideas for recipes or posts.

Long walks

Do you know the saying: "I came for the physical benefits, but I stayed for the mental ones"? This happened to me soon after I made walking a daily habit (circa 2015).

What began as a pursuit of physical health—"getting my steps in," being active, and all that gist—transformed into an exercise of being present.

Each day, as I step outside and start walking, the crunch of gravel beneath my feet and the breeze on my face signal the start of my moving meditation.

This walking habit has literally changed my brain, one step at a time. Apparently, when we walk, a few things happen: an improvement in mood, more clarity, creative ideas flowing, and emotional processing. It has also become a form of active rest, a balm for sleepless nights, and my go-to when there's too much chatter in my mind.

Rest

Rest has always been a test for me. I had to unlearn the deeply ingrained notion that productivity equals worth, learn that resting isn’t laziness, and accept that I don't need to achieve something daily.

In the past few years, I've become more intentional about creating space for slow, unstructured days—days when I don't need to be anywhere and lying in bed with a book until noon seems essential.

But I realized that I only recently learned to rest—truly rest. That rest is a daily habit rather than a bunch of activities you do on weekends, supposedly to help you relax and recover, but which inevitably end up being more stressful than restful.

What I mean by that is learning the difference between a state of being and a state of doing. It’s the small moments when I stand up from my desk to make a cup of tea, the conscious breath I take as I pause to gaze at my flowers on the terrace, the five minutes I spend basking in the sun, or the time I spend connecting with my sister and niece over a video call to hear her laugh.

As Abigail Bergstrom writes in her post, "Effortless Rest," rest "is in the daily pause. It's in the conscious breath. It's in you."

It took me a long time to realize that. Somehow, I always looked at rest as something external, an act outside the body, but the funny thing is that most of it is inside.

It's in the state of both my mind and body.

Cooking

There are few things I find as precious as a beautifully cooked home meal.

Cooking has become my bridge between activity and rest, a form of doing that engages my senses and grounds me in the present moment. On rest days, I take a different approach, creating with what I have at hand rather than meticulously planning dishes as I inevitably do during the week.

Since this week was busy and my body didn’t feel rested, I decided to treat myself this morning with something I genuinely love: buckwheat pancakes.

While I was cooking them, I found myself immersed in the process: the gentle sizzle of batter hitting the pan, the earthy aroma of buckwheat mingling with the sweet scent of cinnamon and vanilla essence, and the satisfaction of watching golden circles form. Then, the plating, which crowned all this effort with a plate so colorful and happy that it made my heart sing.

As I sit here now, savoring the last bites of my freshly made buckwheat pancakes, I realize how these four elements—reading, walking, cooking, and resting—have woven themselves into the very fabric of my days. They form a gentle rhythm, a personal symphony of pursuits that sustains me through ordinary and challenging times.

And now, as promised, here's the recipe for my beloved buckwheat pancakes—a simple pleasure you can create in your own kitchen.

I dare you to try this recipe; it won't disappoint.

Buckwheat protein pancakes

The best part about this recipe is the small number of kitchen utensils it requires—mainly a bowl, a whisk, a grater, and a pan.

Serves: 2 ( generous servings, about six medium-big pancakes each)

Prep time: 5 -10 mins

Cooking time: 15 mins

Ingredients

1 medium ripe banana, mashed

1 medium apple, grated (I prefer jazz apples for their taste, crunchiness and sweetness)

4 medium eggs

200g buckwheat flour

200g of cottage cheese, greek yogurt, or plain yogurt

½ teaspoon of vanilla essence

1 pinch of salt

¼ teaspoon cinnamon

¼ teaspoon cardamon (optional)

1 teaspoon of baking powder

2 tablespoons of seeds mix (chia, hemp, flax seeds) - optional

*Note: the seed mix can be omitted if you’re preparing these for little ones

Method:

1. Whisk the eggs with a pinch of salt in a bowl until they are airy and fluffy.

2. Add the mashed banana, the dairy of choice, and the vanilla essence and continue whisking. (If you’re using cottage cheese, use a hand blender to break down the cheese pearls).

3. Mix the buckwheat flour, spices, seed mix, and baking powder, spoon by spoon to the wet ingredients, and continue to whisk until all the flour is incorporated.

4. Grate the apple, then slowly fold it in with the rest of the ingredients.

Don’t over-mix the batter; the pancakes will lose shape and become dense instead of fluffy.

5. Preheat a nonstick pan over medium heat and add just a tiny amount of coconut oil or ghee. When hot, pour about 2 tbsp of batter into the pan, using the back of your spoon to shape it into a round pancake.

6. When lightly golden on the bottom, flip it and let it cook on the other side.

7. When the pancakes are done, layer them and add your toppings and extra Greek yogurt.

Toppings

I like to serve the pancakes with one tablespoon of peanut butter on top, fresh mixed berries, and kiwis (and persimmons when they’re in season).

P.S. I hope you like them as much as I do. x

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I am walking down a quiet street in my neighbourhood on what’s supposed to be a spring day. Flash news: it feels like anything but that.

It's cold and grey outside, and my bundled-up body mourns last week’s sun. Yet, amidst the grey, budding pink magnolia trees stand defiant against the cold. Daffodils dot lawns in bright yellow bursts, and a lone bird chirps loudly, its song acting like a balm for my worked-up nervous system.

After wrestling with a draft for days — a post I had hoped would launch a series called Breaking the Fast — I finally broke ties with my laptop. My mind had become cluttered with too many ideas, and each draft iteration felt more forced than the last.

Sometimes, trying to polish something too much strips away its character — like those grocery store fruits and vegetables that look suspiciously perfect but taste like disappointment. I needed clarity, perspective and perhaps some inspiration, so I did what works best when I get stuck: I took a long walk.

As I wandered through my neighbourhood, I brooded on what I’d like this publication to be, what authentic writing means to me, and how I can bridge conversations of comforting bowls of soup with scientific bits like cold adaptation. This train of thought has been on my mind for days, and it’s safe to say just one walk couldn’t give me an answer. Perhaps it would naturally reveal itself to me in the days to come, —who knows?

What is your process or habit for finding clarity when stuck? Let me know in the comments.

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The chill in the air eventually drove me homeward, my musings about food writing giving way to more immediate physical needs.

When I got inside, it was nearly 5:30 p.m., and I realised I hadn’t even started thinking about dinner. I was darn hungry and craved a hearty meal, —something comforting and nourishing like beef stew.

So I surveyed my kitchen pantry and fridge and found I have just enough ingredients to get me started: parsnips, carrots, red onions, celery, garlic—and well, diced beef.

In the UK, packaged meats often come with preparation instructions printed on them—a helpful guide for some, but an unnecessary distraction for me. As someone who loves to cook intuitively, these instructions are likely to be ignored most of the time.

Which reminds me of a friend (you know who you are) I used to mentor in cooking. He would ask for advice on how to do something; I’d patiently explain why some steps had to be done a certain way or how flavours could be layered — and then he’d go off and do his own thing anyway.

I found it hilarious and frustrating altogether, and wondered, “Why ask if you aren’t going to listen?” But over time, I realised his approach wasn’t wrong—it was just different. He was experimenting, learning by doing (his own mistakes) rather than by following rules. And isn’t that the essence of cooking?

Holding onto that thought, I started preparing my stew. Instead of cooking it on the stove as I usually do, I resolved to try something different: slow-cooking it in the oven at a low temperature. The idea was simple—let low-temperature heat work its magic until the meat becomes melt-in-your-mouth tender.

A near disaster turned delight

But then reality hit me hard: this method requires patience—three to four hours of patience, depending on the cut and quantity of meat. Even the packaging confirmed this (not that I’d bothered to check earlier).

In disbelief and hungry, I decided to make myself a quick dish of salmon with quinoa and sautéed vegetables while the stew was cooking in the oven.

Two hours and thirty-five minutes into the cooking process, curiosity got the better of me. I cautiously opened the oven door and peered inside the Dutch oven where my stew had been simmering away.

To my horror—and relief—the meat was almost done.

The liquid had mostly been absorbed into the meat and vegetables, leaving behind a rich sauce that clung to each morsel like velvet. Another ten minutes in the oven might have burned everything and ruined the dish beyond saving; my timing had been just right.

I pulled out the pot and didn’t even bother to plate the stew; I ate a few spoonfuls directly from the pot.

To my surprise, it was delicious, so I was thrilled. Tender chunks of beef that practically fell apart at the touch of a fork, vegetables infused with deep umami flavours, a sauce so rich it reminded me of a juicy pulled-pork sandwich I once had at a farm in the UK countryside.

Lessons from the kitchen (and life)

Cooking this stew wasn’t just about making dinner— it became an exercise in embracing imperfection and trusting my intuition. If there’s one thing both cooking and writing have taught me, it’s that trying too hard can stifle creativity.

Whether it’s ignoring package instructions or scrapping yet another draft iteration that feels too polished to be authentic, sometimes you have to let go of expectations to find what you’re looking for.

As I said in my first post, mistakes—or near-mistakes—often lead to some of the best dishes. The stew could have burned, but it didn’t. Instead, it became one of the most satisfying meals I’ve had in the past two months—not because everything went perfectly, but because I allowed room for improvisation.

Now, onto the recipe.

Slow cooked beef stew

Below you’ll find instructions on how you can recreate this beef stew—but remember: recipes are guidelines, not rules.

Mine ended up being in the oven just under 3 hours because I only had 500 g of diced chuck beef, and it turned out incredibly tender and tasty. Even the little connective tissue it contained was cooked nicely too.

Note:You don’t necessarily need to use a dutch oven, any heat resistant casserole pan with a lid works as good.

Let me know in the comments if you try it and how it turns out.

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Seves 2

Prep time: 20 mins

Cooking time: 3-4 hrs depending on the beef cut, quantity and how fresh the meat is

Ingredients:

1 red onion (white onion works as well)

1 large parsnip

3 medium carrots

2 celery stalks

1 clove of garlic

1-2 bay leaves

Salt and pepper to season the stew and the flour

1 - 2 teaspoons of ghee / oil

500g diced beef

2-3 tablespoons of buckwheat flour/ regular flour (for flouring the meat)

1 tablespoon tomato purée

700ml beef or vegetable stock

a few sprigs of fresh parsley

Method

1. Preheat your oven to 160ºC.

2. Wash the root vegetables and celery stalks and roughly chop them. Peel and dice the onion, then mince the garlic clove.

3. Heat the ghee / oil in a dutch oven or a casserole pan/oven-resistant pan on medium heat, then add the onions and celery and fry them for 2-4 minutes. Make sure the onion doesn’t burn, we want it nice and translucent. Then add the garlic as well, frying for 1 more minute.

4. In the meantime, dry out any excess water from the meat with a paper towel, then toss it through the seasoned buckwheat flour. ( This is a trick I learned from Jamie Oliver and honestly, it makes all the difference in the consistency of the stew.)

5. Next, add the meat to the dutch oven with all the vegetables, bay leaves, tomato puree and the stock, stirring together.

6. Season well with pepper and a bit of salt (I used Celtic salt for this recipe, but Himalayan or sea salt work as well)

7. Let it simmer until it comes to boil, then cover it with a lid and place in the oven until the meat is tender. Depending on what cut you’re using and how fresh it is, this step can take 3-4 hours, sometimes under 3hrs.

8. Close to the 3hr mark, test a piece of meat (if it falls apart easily then you know it’s done).

9. Let it rest for a few minutes then plate it and garnish it with parsley. Serve with warm bread or polenta.

I hope you’ll enjoy this comforting dish as much as I did. x