상위 5개 식료품 스토어 아이템을 나열하세요.
I hate cooking.
More precisely, I hate everything that trails behind cooking.
Choosing ingredients, washing them, cutting them, turning on the heat, waiting, and then doing the dishes—
that long sequence drains the energy out of my day.
So I treat meals not as “taste,” but as “construction.”
My standard is simple:
the nutrients my body needs, with the least effort possible.
My basic fuel is already decided.
Milk, eggs, convenience-store lunchboxes, ramen or microwavable rice.
Milk is for coffee. Coffee is the switch that turns on my day, so milk naturally becomes essential.
Eggs are the one ingredient I genuinely love—my absolute favorite. Not every day, but often, for one reason: they’re easy.
Ramen and rice need no explanation. Boil it or heat it up and you’re done.
Lunchboxes are even simpler: buy them and eat. And they come with variety. I do want variety—
I just don’t want to cook for it. So the lunchbox becomes “variety” on my behalf.
People say, “You eat what you like often.”
But in my life, the opposite happens.
Laziness beats preference.
I love potatoes. I really do.
And yet potatoes don’t show up in my shopping basket that often.
Even if I love something, if it’s a hassle to cook, it drifts away from daily life.
Instead, I sometimes just eat a few potato dishes at a restaurant and call it enough.
Is that strange? I don’t think it is.
What disappears isn’t what I like—only its “frequency of appearance” gets adjusted.
Rather than eating it often, I eat it once in a while and feel a big satisfaction.
That’s how the foods I love survive.
And I have a supply kit.
This isn’t an everyday routine.
It’s a set of supplements I “administer” only when my body asks for it.
Bananas. Salad packs. Nuts. Tofu. Yogurt.
I don’t eat these because I “crave” them—I eat them because I “need” them.
Bananas are fast, salad packs are light, nuts last long, tofu becomes protein, and yogurt gently resets my body.
No cooking. Few choices. Just intake—like a dose.
This is where people often bring up “home-cooked meals.”
They say home food is warm, it’s love, and therefore it’s “better.”
But home cooking doesn’t contain only romance. It contains someone’s time, someone’s stamina, someone’s wrists and lower back.
The moment it’s named “love,” that labor turns invisible—
and only the sound of dishes being washed remains.
I know that sound. So I keep my meals not as romance, but as structure.
I’m not someone who doesn’t understand delicious food.
I just often don’t feel the need for it that strongly.
What matters to me is carbohydrates, a bit of protein, and minerals and vitamins.
Desire hasn’t vanished—desire has simply been pushed back.
So my meals often run on “function,” not “mood.”
Someone might call this bleak. Too simple.
But to me, this structure isn’t bleakness—it’s sustainability.
It matches the way I live:
remove unnecessary friction, and leave energy for what actually matters.
And I believe one more thing.
The most immature thing a person can do is dodge responsibility.
The moment you speak of love and hand the burden to someone else, that love stops being a confession and becomes a transfer of weight.
The love I received from my mother can remain as gratitude.
The moment I try to reproduce that love as someone else’s “duty,” it’s no longer love—it’s a demand.
A meal plan made by someone who doesn’t want to cook isn’t a deficiency.
It’s a design.
Today, again, I run on basic fuel—
and when necessary, I administer the supply kit.
And it keeps my body, my day,
alive longer than you’d think—quite steadily.
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