I heard a word recently — frictionmaxxing — that refers to deliberately stepping away from the conveniences of modern technology. According to a piece in Raconteur, “Modern technology has removed much of life’s natural friction. From instant delivery apps to algorithmically optimised workflows, everything is engineered for ease and convenience. Yet this very design can erode critical thinking, creativity and long-term planning.”
I’m not about to suggest you delete your delivery apps and start churning your own butter. I am, however, increasingly interested in the idea that a little friction might be good for us. Especially in the kitchen.
Last weekend I gathered a handful of friends at someone’s house and we cooked together. Not a dinner party where one person does the work and everyone else arrives with a bottle. Not a formal class in a commercial kitchen. Just a group of curious eaters in a real home kitchen, sleeves rolled up.
I’m in the process of developing a workshop built around exactly this idea. People come together, cook together, learn new recipes and techniques, and then sit down to eat what they’ve made. It’s hands on, collaborative, and grounded in the reality of someone’s actual kitchen set-up.
My aim is simple: to help people feel more confident cooking the food they actually want to eat.
I talk a lot about the idea that a recipe is a template and that was our starting point. Each person riffed on the base recipe to suit their own palate. More heat here. A different herb there. A swap of spice, an extra splash of acid. People tried condiments they’d never used. Pantry tips were traded freely. I shared a few of my favourite shortcuts for getting tasty food on the table without overcomplicating things.
So what did we make?
Stuffed capsicums. Sausage rolls. Compound butter to take home.
There was wine, of course. The afternoon felt celebratory in a low-key way. Not because the food was fancy, but because we were all there IRL. Doing something creative with our hands and laughing over puff pastry that refused to behave.
And I think that was the magic.
Cooking like this introduces friction. You have to chop the onions yourself. You have to decide how much salt is enough. You have to taste and adjust. There’s no algorithm doing it for you. But in that small effort, something shifts. You’re no longer a passive consumer of dinner but the author of it.
I’m still refining the format of what I want to offer. I keep coming back to the idea of hosting these sessions in people’s home kitchens. Not everyone’s space will suit, but often there’s one person in a group whose kitchen can anchor the day.
I would bring the recipes and the core ingredients then we’d open the fridge and peer into the pantry to see what’s there and how it might fit. That part feels important to me. If the equipment, ingredients or set up feel too polished or out of reach, the experience risks becoming theatre rather than a foundation.
I want people to leave thinking, “I can do that in my kitchen on my stove.”
Because confidence doesn’t come from watching someone else cook perfectly. It comes from doing it yourself, from making small mistakes and discovering that your version is just as valid as mine.
Modern life has engineered out a lot of friction. Maybe the kitchen is one place we can choose to keep a little of it. Not because it’s harder but because it’s better.
Last weekend I gathered a handful of friends at someone’s house and we cooked together. Not a dinner party where one person does the work and everyone else arrives with a bottle. Not a formal class in a commercial kitchen. Just a group of curious eaters in a real home…
A tray of roasted sweet potatoes. A container of caramelised onions. A snaplock bag of cooked rice waiting patiently in the freezer. It’s not militant meal prep; it’s just cooking with a little foresight.
Dishes to Impress, Seduce, and Spoil Your Boo. When I was single, I absolutely employed cooking in my dating arsenal. Food was my love language and, frankly, my best flirting strategy.