Chef Peesh Chopra

  By Chef Peesh Chopra On difficult days, I don’t experiment in the kitchen. I repeat. I make the same tea. I cut vegetables the same way. I let the same dish simmer a little longer than needed. Not because it’s efficient—but because it’s familiar. There were periods in my life when everything felt uncertain. Work was demanding. The future felt noisy. On those days, cooking became my refuge—not through creativity, but through repetition. I realized that these small rituals were doing something powerful. They were calming my nervous system. They were giving me control when life felt overwhelming. The act of rinsing rice slowly. The smell of spices heating gently. The quiet moment before the first bite. These weren’t habits. They were anchors. Over time, I stopped chasing complexity and started honoring repetition. I understood that comfort doesn’t always come from new flavors—it comes from familiar ones made with care. Today, when I feel overwhelmed, I don’t search for motivation...

  A few years ago, my kitchen was full — not just with utensils and ingredients, but with mental noise. Drawers overflowing, shelves packed, too many spices, too many ideas, too many unfinished recipes. And then one day, during a particularly stressful week, I opened a drawer and everything fell out. That small moment hit me harder than I expected. I realized my kitchen reflected exactly how my mind felt. That night, I removed everything I didn’t use. Old jars. Duplicate pans. Ingredients I bought “just in case.” I kept only what made my cooking feel alive. The next morning, I cooked with only four ingredients. No pressure. No clutter. Just simplicity. And something surprising happened — my breathing slowed , my shoulders relaxed, and the mental fog I had been carrying for weeks lifted a little. Minimalist cooking became my therapy. It taught me: When the kitchen is clear, the mind feels lighter. When I reduce ingredients, I focus better. When I simplify flavors, I taste ...

 By Chef Peesh Chopra There was a time in my life when everything felt loud — not outside, but inside. Work pressure, nonstop deadlines, long days in the kitchen, the feeling of always rushing… it was a season when even simple tasks felt heavy. One evening, without planning anything big, I put a pot on the stove and decided to make a slow, simple dal — something my mother used to cook. No timers. No rushing. Just heat, water, turmeric, and breath. As the dal simmered gently, I noticed something: my mind slowed down too. I could hear the tiny bubbles forming. I could smell the earthiness of lentils releasing their warmth. I felt my shoulders drop. The restlessness inside me softened — one small moment at a time. That evening changed something in me. I realized that slow cooking wasn’t just about flavor; it was about returning to myself . It became my ritual. Whenever life felt chaotic, I would come back to the stove, chop gently, simmer slowly, taste mindfully. I wasn’t just...