This week starts Greek and lemony on Sunday, goes miso-y and Japanese on Monday, bright and crunchy with Thai larb on Tuesday, then chili-lime shrimp and tortillas on Wednesday. Thursday is a cozy turkey-and-white-bean ragù, Friday we’re building burgers, and by Saturday, you’ve cooked enough. Go out, take in, or let someone else do the cooking.

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A roasted vegetable alongside rounds it out.

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But over the last few months, I’ve also been doing something that has made my own life so much easier, and it feels too useful not to share.

I’ve spent most of my adult life cooking. I grew up on a biodynamic farm in the Hudson Valley, cooked professionally as a private chef, became the Food Editor at Goop, helped develop recipes for Goop Kitchen, opened restaurants, written cookbooks and have generally spent an unreasonable amount of my life thinking about what people should eat. You’d think making dinner every night would be second nature. And it turns out cooking is never the problem. Deciding what to cook is.

What are we having tonight? What are the girls taking for lunch tomorrow? Is there anything in the fridge? Do I really have to go back to the grocery store because I forgot cilantro?

So I stopped deciding on a whim every day and instead sit down every Saturday morning, usually over coffee, I map out what we’re eating for the week. On Sunday I grocery shop and do a little prep. By Monday, the thinking is done. We waste less, spend less, rarely make a second grocery run, and—perhaps most importantly— I’m not standing in front of the refrigerator at 5:43 p.m. hoping dinner will reveal itself to me.

And I thought: Why am I not just sending you the plan I’m already making?

So starting this Saturday, that’s what you’ll find here: five weeknight dinners, breakfast ideas, packed lunches built from what we’re already cooking, one grocery list, optional Sunday prep, and all the recipes. One less thing for you to decide, while knowing your family is eating really well.

It matters to me that my girls are exposed to a wide variety of food and grow up curious about what’s on the table. But I have absolutely no interest in making four different dinners for four different people. These are meals I genuinely want to eat—vegetable-forward, full of herbs, spice, texture and good ingredients—but designed to work for kids too, at their own pace. The goal is one meal the adults are excited about, with small adjustments that give kids a way in. Everyone eats the same food; the plates might just look a little different.

I’ll also share the little things I’ve picked up after years of cooking: why I buy one milk over another, the olive oil I think is actually worth the money, why there’s almost always something fermented on our table, and the tiny kitchen habits that make an outsized difference.

Because What the Flower isn’t just a recipe newsletter. It’s a way to remove one recurring decision from your life and replace it with a week that feels calmer, more delicious, and a little more cared for.

Before we get started, I’ve put together a Pantry Guide. You absolutely do not need to go out and buy all of it. It’s more a look inside my kitchen—what I always keep around and what makes getting dinner on the table easier. Build it slowly. That’s how mine got there.

And every now and then, I’ll still show up with a story from Rapa Nui, something my girls taught me, or whatever else has lodged itself in my head long enough to write about. There will just be dinner waiting for you every Saturday, too.

It’s about the flour on the counter, the flowers on the table, and everything that blooms in between.

Welcome to What the Flower.

See you Saturday,
Ana

When I worked as a private chef, the kitchens I loved cooking in weren’t overflowing with specialty products or twenty different oils. They were stocked with the same handful of thoughtful ingredients that showed up in dinner again and again. A good olive oil. Great beans. A few vinegars. Fresh spices. The kind of pantry that makes a weeknight dinner feel almost effortless.

That’s still how I cook today.

Whether it’s pasta on Tuesday, a curry on Wednesday, or a Friday dinner with friends, I come back to the same pantry over and over again.

The goal isn’t to buy everything on this list tomorrow. Build it slowly.

Every time one of my recipes calls for an ingredient you don’t already own, add it to your pantry. Before long, you’ll realize that most weeks your grocery list is simply produce, herbs, dairy, and protein because everything else is already waiting for you at home.

Think of this as the foundation. Everything we cook together starts here.

Oils

If there’s one place where I like to splurge, it’s olive oil.

You taste the difference immediately. I cook with it almost every day, and a beautiful bottle somehow makes even toast feel exciting. Its healthy fats and antioxidant-rich polyphenols have been linked to supporting heart health, brain function, and reducing inflammation throughout the body.

I keep four oils on hand.

• Everyday Olive Oil: My workhorse. Eggs, vegetables, roasting, sautéing—this is the bottle that lives beside my stove.

• Finishing Olive Oil: A separate bottle that never goes near heat.

  The last drizzle over soup, grilled vegetables, tomatoes, pasta, or a piece of good bread is often what makes people stop and say, “Wait...what did you put on this?”

• Avocado Oil: My neutral oil of choice.

  It has a higher smoke point, a very mild flavor, and is much less processed than many seed oils. I almost never buy grapeseed oil anymore.

• Toasted Sesame Oil: A little goes a very long way. One teaspoon whisked into a vinaigrette or drizzled over noodles somehow makes dinner taste like it came from your favorite neighborhood restaurant.

Vinegars

I don’t own twenty different vinegars. Just these four.

• Apple cider vinegar (bright, clean, and my everyday favorite.)

• Red wine vinegar (the vinaigrette you’ll probably use most often around here.)

• Sherry vinegar (slightly nutty, endlessly elegant, and somehow makes every salad taste restaurant-worthy.)

• Rice vinegar (soft, delicate, and perfect for quick pickles, slaws, and sesame dressings.)

One little thing I love about cooking with vinegar: it wakes everything up.

A squeeze of lemon or a splash of vinegar is often the difference between a dish that tastes flat and one that suddenly comes alive. As a bonus, vinegar has also been associated with supporting healthy digestion and a steadier blood sugar response after meals.

Tomatoes, Beans & Coconut Milk

One of the biggest misconceptions about cooking is that every meal needs to start from scratch.

Some of my favorite dinners start with a can.

Always keep these nearby:

• Whole peeled tomatoes (my favorite for slower sauces and soups.)

• Crushed tomatoes (Tuesday night pasta’s best friend.)

• Unsweetened coconut milk (the fastest way to make something feel creamy without cream.)

• Black beans

• Cannellini and/or navy beans (warm them with garlic, olive oil, lemon, and herbs and dinner is practically done.)

• Chickpeas (roast them, toss them into salads, blend them into hummus, or add them to curries.)

• French or green lentils (they hold their shape beautifully and make the best hearty salads.)

A can of beans, a handful of herbs, garlic, lemon, and good olive oil can become dinner in about fifteen minutes.

A little pantry note: If I’m buying canned beans, I almost always reach for Eden Foods. Their beans are pressure cooked (which helps break down naturally occurring lectins that can make raw or undercooked beans hard to digest) and they have one of the best textures I’ve found. They also skip a lot of the additives and firming agents that can leave beans tasting a little...sad.

The Umami Shelf

These are the ingredients that make people ask,“What is in this?” The answer is usually one of these.

• Tamari (I reach for it almost anywhere someone else would use soy sauce.)

• Coconut aminos (slightly sweeter and wonderful in marinades.)

• Fish sauce - Red Boat only (don’t let the smell scare you—it disappears completely and leaves behind the kind of depth you can’t quite put your finger on.)

• White miso (whisk it into butter, soup, pasta, or salad dressing. It’s basically cheating.)

• Dijon mustard (the backbone of almost every vinaigrette I make.)

• Tomato paste (always cook it for a minute before adding liquid—it completely changes the flavor.)

• Anchovies (melt one into olive oil and you’ll never know it’s there...except you’ll wonder why everything tastes so much better.)

Grains & Pasta

These are the grains I reach for most often.

• Jasmine rice

• Basmati rice

• Farro (my favorite grain for hearty salads.)

• A really good bronze-cut pasta

One tiny hill I’ll happily die on: Good pasta is worth the extra couple of dollars.

It holds sauce better, cooks more evenly, and somehow turns a simple weeknight pasta into something that feels a little special.

Baking

Even if you don’t bake very often, these deserve a permanent home in your pantry.

• Organic all-purpose flour

• Almond flour

• Baking soda

• Baking powder

• Vanilla extract

• Honey

• Maple syrup

I almost always sweeten with maple syrup or honey before reaching for refined sugar.

Salt

People ask me surprisingly often what salt I use.

For cooking, it’s almost always Celtic Sea Salt. It’s minimally processed, naturally rich in trace minerals, and has a softer flavor than traditional table salt. I also love its slightly damp texture—it seasons food beautifully and dissolves quickly while you’re cooking.

For finishing, nothing beats Maldon. A little sprinkle over tomatoes, roasted vegetables, chocolate chip cookies, grilled fish, or avocado toast somehow makes everything taste more finished.

Spices

I’d much rather have fifteen fresh spices than fifty dusty ones.

Most of the jars in my cabinet get used every week. If I haven’t reached for something in over a year, it’s probably time to let it go.

My essentials:

Evermill spices (Chic bottles and keeps it very organized)

• Cinnamon

• Cardamom (I use it almost the way most people use vanilla.)

• Cloves (just one or two completely changes a pot of beans or a braise.)

• Cumin

• Coriander

• Smoked paprika

• Aleppo pepper (milder than crushed red pepper with this beautiful fruity warmth.)

• Fennel seed (magic with sausage, roasted vegetables, and tomato sauce– also tea!)

• Fenugreek (earthy, slightly maple-like, and one of those spices people can never quite identify.)

• Oregano

• Bay leaves

• Crushed red pepper

You’ll notice there isn’t garlic powder or onion powder on this list. That’s intentional.

For almost everything we cook together, I much prefer fresh garlic, fresh onions, and fresh ginger. The flavor is brighter, sweeter, and far more complex. Ginger powder is the one exception—I always keep it around for baking—but for dinner? Fresh wins every single time.

And one more thing...

Fresh spices matter.

If you’ve ever followed a recipe exactly and thought, “Hmm...is this right?” or “It’s good, but it’s kind of...blah,” there’s a good chance your spices have been quietly expiring in the back of your cabinet.

Spices don’t last forever. Replacing the handful you use most often is one of the easiest—and surprisingly affordable—ways to make your cooking taste brighter, deeper, and more vibrant. Another reason to love Ever Mill spices because they sell refill’s and all their spices are organic!

Little Jars Worth Keeping

These don’t get used every day. But when they do, you’ll be very happy they’re there.

• Castelvetrano olives (my favorite olive, forever.)

• Capers

• Caper berries (I snack on these straight from the jar.)

• Preserved lemons (chopped into vinaigrettes, stirred through pasta, folded into roasted vegetables...they make almost everything brighter.)

• Artichoke hearts

These are the little things that quietly make dinner feel less ordinary.

The Refrigerator

These are the things I almost never let myself run out of.

• Parmigiano Reggiano (please don’t buy the pre-grated kind.)

• Good-quality butter (unsalted – you can always add salt later)

• White miso

• Plain Greek yogurt

• A mayonnaise you genuinely love (vegan is okay too)

• Tahini

• Dijon mustard

• Eggs

• Lemons

• Garlic

• Fresh ginger

• Scallions

• Fresh herbs

Buy more garlic than you think you’ll need.

No, really.

Almost every dinner we make together starts with garlic gently sizzling in olive oil.

Before Saturday...

You absolutely do not need to buy everything on this list before we begin.

My pantry wasn’t built in one shopping trip, and yours doesn’t need to be either.

Add things little by little. Every time a recipe calls for something you don’t already own, toss it into your cart. Before long, you’ll have a pantry that quietly works even before you’ve even started cooking.

By the time Saturday’s email lands in your inbox, your grocery list will mostly be produce, dairy, and protein—and dinner will already be halfway there.

I can’t wait to cook with you.

Ana

And now, somehow, I live on an island in the middle of the Pacific and I do not own a mirror. Not in a poetic, minimalist, Gwyneth-on-a-detox-retreat way. I literally just… don’t have one.

The closest thing I have is the rearview mirror in my Russian military car or occasionally the black screen of my phone when it catches the light right. If I’m going to dinner or a birthday party or something where society generally prefers you not resemble a feral goat herder, I’ll turn on my selfie camera for thirty seconds and confirm I don’t have dirt on my forehead. But otherwise? Nothing.

And I’ve now lived like this for almost four years.

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There’s something quietly vulnerable about wanting, even just for a moment, to be cared for with the same attentiveness and tenderness you try to give away so freely yourself.

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We met when I was a teenager, freshly kicked out of boarding school and living with my grandfather, whose only condition for letting me stay was that I get a job. So I did — at Blooming Hill Farm, back when it was still charming in that unselfconscious, pre–”farm aesthetic” way. Michael would come every Saturday with his partner, impossibly well-dressed ordering the same gluten-free vegan spelt loaf to snack on while they shopped. I knew they were the best-dressed people in the county because I knew the county.

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We became friends in that immediate, unexplainable way — bonded by hiking, long drives, a shared tolerance for hours of conversation. We’ve probably spent more time in a car together than anyone else in my life, tracing the Hudson Valley and Maine’s coast, circling the same ideas until they sharpened into something useful. There’s a particular intimacy to that kind of time. It’s something I miss now, living on an island where every road eventually loops back on itself.

Michael has always been obsessed with one idea: abundance. He read Think and Grow Rich at nineteen, decided he’d build a billion-dollar company by fifty — and did,(firstdibs). But what’s always been more interesting than the outcome is the framework. The way he thinks. This time, as we spoke on the phone he talked about : Synthetic lack.

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Almost none of the fruit here is technically indigenous — guavas, figs, grapevines, lemon trees. But the soil just grows things. The mango trees go slightly feral. Heavy, a little unruly, fruit dropping without asking permission.

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We don’t really pick mangoes here so much as we encounter them. Out fishing on weekends, taking the animals to water — you pass a tree, reach up, twist one off, wipe your hands on your shorts, and eat it right there. No plan. Just what happens.

The mangoes taste different. More floral. Softer somehow — less bluntly sweet and more perfumed, like the sun has warmed them into something slightly more complex. The kind of fruit that makes you stop mid-bite because it feels almost excessive in how good it is. Think: the best peach of your life, but a mango.

And then there are the green ones, which are their own thing entirely.

At the start of the season, when nothing is ripe yet, we slice them with salt — sharp, bright, almost electric. But my favorite way to use them is in ceviche, where that tartness does real work, or in a salsa alongside green banana chips. Something about the crunch and the acidity together just makes sense. At the end of the season, when a few won’t quite make it to ripe, we go back to the same tricks. Two completely different fruits. Same tree.

In between, it’s everything. Juice. Marmalade. Ice cream. A kitchen counter that’s always slightly too full. Hands that are always a little sticky. The constant low-level feeling that there’s one more mango that needs to be eaten right now.

And then, slowly, it thins out. The trees look lighter. The ground isn’t covered anymore. You reach for one and realize you actually have to look. Mango season doesn’t end dramatically — it just quietly recedes, and suddenly something that felt completely infinite is gone.

I’m ready for a break. I think. But there’s nothing quite like a tree-ripe mango, and I already know I’ll spend the rest of the year waiting for the first one to fall again.

Not because it’s long — though it is — but because it’s a dirt road with three gates you have to get out of the car to open, and horses and cows who have decided, reasonably, that the road through their pasture is also their road. You negotiate. You wait. You inch forward. And then there’s the steep part near the bottom, the one that drops fast enough that both girls throw their hands up and shout weeee and woo-hoo like we’ve just stuck the landing on something enormous.

By the time we hit the actual road at the bottom — paved, flat, normal — we’ve been in the car for twenty minutes and accomplished what feels like a small expedition. Then it’s another fifteen to school. Forty-five in total if we’re behind someone slow, which on this island, we often are.

That’s the drive people keep telling me I shouldn’t be doing.

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What’s missing isn’t quality so much as range. There’s no moment where you think, I want Thai tonight, or something deeply, specifically Indian, or even just a very good, overstuffed sandwich eaten standing up. There’s no erratic craving economy. No delicious indecision.

And if you’re someone who has built a life around food—not just eating it, but thinking about it, making it, hosting around it—you start to feel that absence in a very particular way.

So, a handful of friends and I started cooking.

Not in a grand, performative way. More like a quiet correction. A group chat, a loose plan, the last Saturday of the month. Someone says, I’ll bring the tomatoes and chicken, someone else claims garlic and wine, and I—predictably—end up somewhere in the middle of five simmering pots, very much in my element.

It’s funny, because this is exactly how It’s a Dinner started. Same cadence, same loose structure. One night a month, a different cuisine each time. Back then, it felt like building something. Here, it feels more like remembering something.

This past weekend, we made Indian food—something very not Rapa Nui. The only “spice” here, really, is salt, so you can imagine how atypical (and mildly chaotic) it was to track down everything needed.

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Speaking in a second language—especially socially—doesn’t just change what you say. It changes who you are when you say it. My sense of humor doesn’t land the same. My timing is different. The version of me that exists in English—the one that feels quick, sharp, fully expressed—gets slightly out of reach. And it’s subtle, but over time, you feel it.

Because making friends in a language that isn’t yours isn’t just about vocabulary—it’s about identity. It’s about trying to recreate a version of yourself that doesn’t quite transfer the same way. And even though I have a handful of good friends here, people I care about, people I spend time with, there’s still a difference I can feel. Because there’s nothing quite like having a best friend in your own language.

Which is maybe why, without really planning for it, I’ve built my life around one very specific habit.

There’s this idea in learning theory—backed by decades of research—that we don’t actually absorb information well when it comes at us in just one form. The more modalities you engage, the deeper the learning: hearing something, writing it down, speaking it out loud, physically doing it, seeing it reflected back to you.

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Rapa Nui is one of the most remote inhabited islands on the planet—a place where every horizon eventually becomes ocean. Once you’re here, the island does something to you. The wind, the sun, the salt, the sound of the waves at night… it all starts to recalibrate the way you move through your day. There’s a rawness, a rhythm, and a sense of being part of something bigger.

This stew has always felt like it belongs to that rhythm. It’s something we’ve eaten weekly for as long as I can remember, a kind of anchor in a place where everything else—supplies, schedules, weather patterns—can feel unpredictable. Made with whatever comes out of the water that morning, the fish simmers in a broth that somehow manages to be rich and delicate at the same time. Fire-roasted tomatoes, onions, and alliums add this smoky-sweet depth, and then right at the end, a wildly generous handful of herbs and a squeeze of lemon wake everything up.

And the best part? It doesn’t demand slow-cooking, babysitting, or any sort of culinary martyrdom. It comes together fast—like, legitimately fast—making it ideal for days spent running around the ranch, handling actual responsibilities, or realizing you forgot to buy groceries (again). The fish turns perfectly tender without effort, and that last-minute hit of herbs and lemon gives it this bright, sunlit energy that feels extremely in line with island life.

Introducing: The No-Recipe Recipe.

Here’s the thing: I love a recipe that guides you. But a recipe that insists on hand-holding? Not really my vibe. I don’t cook like that in my everyday life, and I don’t expect anyone else to, either. Most of the time, I’m improvising—adjusting, tasting, adding a little more of what feels right.

A no-recipe recipe is basically permission to trust yourself. It gives you the bones, the spirit, the general direction, without trapping you in the culinary equivalent of a paint-by-numbers kit. You learn faster, you cook better, and the whole process becomes infinitely more enjoyable—for you and the person lucky enough to eat what you made.

So consider this your no-recipe recipe. Use it. Adapt it. Let the island energy take over a little. And don’t worry about doing it perfectly—there are more important things to stress about.

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Which feels both completely normal and slightly surreal.

There are things I miss in a very specific, almost sensory way—the chill of an overly air-conditioned organic grocery store, the casual abundance of options, the particular rhythm of a restaurant: the low hum, the clinking and clanking, the choreography of people who know exactly where to stand and when to move. I miss that kind of friction. That kind of density.

But something else has happened, too. I’ve gotten comfortable here in a way that feels less like settling and more like recalibrating. Like my baseline has shifted. To the point where the idea of leaving doesn’t feel exciting in the way it used to—it feels… interruptive. And that feeling—unexpectedly—is a good one.

Because this place has always been important to me. I write about it often. I live here, I’m from here, my life is threaded through it in ways that feel both obvious and impossible to fully articulate. And I’ve spent a lot of time trying to share it—its beauty, its pace, its texture—with people who, understandably, don’t have a reason to think about it at all.

But recently I realized there’s a story I’ve never really told. Not because it’s hidden—but because it’s so embedded in everyday life here and everywhere in the world that it almost disappears. And it’s a story that matters. Not in a romantic, persuasive way. I’m not trying to convince anyone that this is the most important place in the world.

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On our ranch in Rapa Nui, we have Wi-Fi in one of the houses via starlink. I don’t have a Chilean phone — not that theres much service here on the island anyways, so when I’m not in that one house, I simply don’t exist online. No texts, no scroll, no ambient hum of other people’s lives filtering in.

It sounds idyllic, and it is—until it isn’t.

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