This is an article I have wanted to write for a long time. An article many of you have asked for as well. It is a personal text. It is not about dieting, miracle methods, or dramatic transformations. I am not sharing a discipline to follow, nor a promise to keep. I am simply writing about the way I eat, my relationship with food, with cooking, with taste and pleasure, and, more broadly, a certain French way of seeing things.
What was passed down to me, first. And then what I learned over time, through experience, curiosity, and a conscious return to common sense. When I really thought about it, I realised that my way of eating rests on three very simple principles.
- I cook almost everything I eat, using mostly whole or minimally processed ingredients.
- I very rarely buy ultra-processed foods.
- And when I feel like eating something sweet, I make it myself.
My kitchen is therefore built around basic ingredients: seasonal fruits and vegetables (organic when possible) whole bread, cheeses, plain yogurts, eggs, butter, flour, sugar, milk (often plant-based, oat milk for instance), pasta, fish, carefully chosen meat, spices, herbs, garlic, onions, shallots, and always a good dark chocolate for homemade cakes. With very little, you can do a great deal. Endless variations, countless meals.
I believe this way of eating comes from my mother, who has always cooked a lot, and from my grandmother before her. When we were children, industrial biscuits were rarely allowed at home. Instead, there was almost always a homemade cake: a chocolate cake, an apple tart, chocolate mousse, pastries made for no particular reason. My father grew a vegetable garden. Seasonal fruits and vegetables were simply part of daily life. I grew up this way, without it ever being framed as a rule or a restriction. It was simply normal.
Even today, my meals follow a fairly traditional structure. Two to three meals a day, depending on the day, my mood, the rhythm of the week. I sometimes skip breakfast if I am not hungry. Other days, especially on weekends, I take my time: pastries from the day before, French toast, waffles, crêpes, chocolate cookies, always homemade. There is something deeply reassuring in these gestures: the anticipation of flavours, even before tasting them, the smell of warm butter in the kitchen, a cake left to cool on the counter while the house slowly grows quiet.
During the week, lunch is often simple, sometimes eaten quickly. In the evenings and on weekends, I like to cook more. Since my years living and working in London, I have lost the very French habit of long lunch breaks, but dinner remains an important moment. The one thing I very rarely do is snack between meals. I was always taught that eating between meals dulls the appetite for the next one. I kept this habit. If I am hungry earlier than expected, I simply eat earlier.
My cooking is not really about recipes, but about flavour combinations I know and continue to build over time. I know, for instance, that cauliflower works just as well with garlic and béchamel as it does with curry and coconut milk. From a single ingredient, many possibilities emerge: slowly roasted in the oven, baked into a gratin, mashed, or sautéed in a pan. This, to me, is what truly matters in cooking: knowing ingredients, understanding cooking methods, learning how flavours work together. Not seeking complexity, but freedom. Eating seasonal fruits and vegetables also allows for natural variety throughout the year, without ever feeling repetitive.
I do not see cooking as a constraint, nor as a sacred ritual. I see it as an integral part of everyday hygiene, much like sleep or movement. Eating is a necessity. Eating well is a condition for living well. And what if we stopped trying to optimise, monitor, and control our food, and simply allowed it to become what it once was: a daily, uncomplicated act?
I do not plan my meals far in advance, and I do not rely on schedules or charts. There is, of course, some anticipation when grocery shopping, but the rest happens day by day. And when weeks are particularly busy, I have a few simple solutions: unseasoned frozen vegetables, slow-cooked dishes prepared in the oven or a casserole, or sometimes just a plate of cheese, a little ham, bread, and fruit.
The word “diet” has no place in my repertoire. I do not see food as something to restrict or correct. Eating is, above all, a pleasure. I allow myself everything, within a clear and simple framework. During Epiphany week, for instance, we baked and ate several homemade almond pithiviers. This is exceptional, and fully embraced. Balance happens naturally: a rich meal simply calls for a lighter one afterward. And above all, I bake what I eat. Sometimes laziness wins over desire, and in that case, I eat nothing sweet. Not out of deprivation, but because I do not want it enough to cook for it.
It is entirely possible to eat this way abroad. I can attest to that. Since living in Amsterdam, I cook even more than I did in France. Certain products that were easy to find there (good puff pastry, for example) are harder to come by here. So I learned how to make them myself.
If, by the end of this article, you feel the desire to eat “the French way,” I would say just one thing: one of the most valuable things to borrow from French culture is its cuisine. Cooking is perhaps the simplest way to return to a more peaceful relationship with food. Giving cooking a central place again is a way of giving meaning back to what we eat. A simple cuisine, made of recognisable ingredients, joyful enough to never become an obsession.
An almost old-fashioned way of cooking, the kind our grandparents knew, yet deeply contemporary.
And, above all, guided by common sense.
