“Simplicity” has become one of the most abused words in food writing. It is used as praise, as reassurance, and often as a shield. Simple food. Simple recipes. Simple cooking. The word appears everywhere — and almost nowhere does it mean what it claims to mean.
At its best, simplicity is the result of deep understanding. At its worst, it is a way of avoiding explanation.
The problem is not that food should be accessible. The problem is that simplicity has been confused with reduction — and reduction, when done without understanding, produces fragility. Many recipes that present themselves as simple are not simple at all. They are merely underwritten.
True simplicity is rarely visible. It is the outcome of many decisions being made quietly and correctly. In professional kitchens, simple dishes are often the hardest to execute because there is nowhere to hide. When a plate has few elements, every one of them must perform. Seasoning must be precise. Technique must be clean. Timing must be exact. Nothing compensates for anything else.
Food writing, however, often reverses this logic. Complexity is hidden, not resolved. Instructions are shortened. Explanations are removed. Ambiguity is reframed as freedom. What is presented as simplicity is frequently a transfer of responsibility from writer to reader.
Phrases like “this couldn’t be easier” or “just throw everything together” do not empower the cook. They obscure the work that went into making the dish succeed. They assume conditions that may not exist: correct heat, correct pan, correct ingredient behavior, correct intuition. When the dish fails, the reader concludes that they are the problem — not the recipe.
This is where simplicity becomes dishonest.
In good food writing, simplicity is an editorial choice, not a marketing one. It is the act of deciding what truly matters and explaining it clearly. That requires more work, not less. It requires knowing which variables can be controlled, which can be ignored, and which must be named explicitly. It requires understanding the difference between clarity and brevity.
Many recipes are short because they are shallow. Few are short because they are distilled.
There is also a cultural dimension to this obsession with simplicity. As food content has shifted toward speed and volume, writing has adapted to fit attention spans rather than kitchens. Recipes are designed to be read quickly, not to be cooked slowly. Simplicity becomes a promise of effortlessness — a reassurance that nothing will demand too much from the reader.
But cooking, by its nature, demands attention. Heat changes things. Ingredients behave unpredictably. Time matters. To suggest otherwise is not generosity; it is misrepresentation.
In professional environments, simplicity is never the starting point. It is the endpoint. A dish becomes simpler only after its complexity has been fully understood. Techniques are reduced because their purpose is clear. Garnishes are removed because they are unnecessary. Steps are eliminated because they add nothing. What remains is essential — and stable.
In much contemporary food writing, simplicity is declared before understanding is established. This leads to recipes that work only under ideal circumstances, written by people who unconsciously rely on experience they never articulate. The recipe functions for them because they are filling in gaps instinctively. The reader cannot.
This gap between experience and instruction is where trust erodes.
There is also a moral dimension to simplicity that is rarely discussed. When food writing presents cooking as effortless, it devalues labor — particularly the labor of those who cook professionally. It flattens skill into personality and replaces knowledge with tone. The message becomes: if this feels hard, you’re doing it wrong.
That is not how learning works. And it is not how good food is made.
Clarity is not the enemy of accessibility. Precision is not intimidation. Readers are far more capable than food media often assumes — if they are treated with respect. Explaining why something works does not make it complicated. It makes it usable.
The best food writing does not promise ease. It promises support. It acknowledges where attention is required and explains how to apply it. It allows for mistakes without disguising them. It does not pretend that removing words removes difficulty.
Simplicity, when it is real, feels calm. Not rushed. Not performative. Calm because the structure underneath is sound.
When simplicity is used as a slogan, it collapses under pressure.
Good food writing does not make cooking look easy.
It makes it make sense.
And that difference — between ease and sense — is where honesty lives.
© 2025 Deborah Wehrens/ KooK Studioo. All rights reserved.
This essay may not be reproduced, adapted, or republished without written permission.
Add comment
Comments