I cooked with only five ingredients for a week—here’s what I’d actually keep doing

I did it for the story—and because I love a constraint. For one week, I cooked with just five ingredients.

No specialty flours, no “just a splash of that,” no safety spices hiding in the back of the cabinet. Five things, period. (Plus the honest freebies: salt, pepper, oil, water, heat.)

I’m vegan and I travel a lot, so I wanted to see what would actually hold up in a small apartment kitchen and still feel like dinner, not penance.

My five: rice, chickpeas, canned tomatoes, onions, and cabbage.

Boring? Only if you give up before your pan gets hot.

Here’s what surprised me, what I ate, when I swore a little, and—most importantly—the habits I’m keeping now that I’m allowed to shop like a civilian again.

The ground rules (and why they matter)

I picked ingredients with different “jobs.”

Rice is the ballast. Chickpeas are protein, texture, and crunch potential. Canned tomatoes are acidity and sauce. Onions are sweetness and depth if you’re patient.

Cabbage is the vegetable that refuses to die in the crisper. With just those five, I could hit sweet/salty/acid/fat/heat using only salt, pepper, and oil. No garlic, no spices.

If my food was going to be interesting, I had to earn it with heat, browning, and contrast.

The first night felt like a dare. By day three, I wasn’t bored—I was cocky.

What I actually cooked (the highlights)

1. Tomato rice with blistered cabbage

Toast rice in oil until it smells nutty, splash in canned tomatoes + water, simmer. In another pan, sear cabbage wedges hard until the edges go black-tipped and sweet. Salt like you mean it. The charry cabbage over the tangy rice tastes like you know a chef.

2. Crispy chickpeas “croutons” + onion ribbons

Drain, dry, and roast chickpeas at high heat until they snap; toss with salt/pepper while hot. Slow-cook sliced onions in a slick of oil until jammy. Pile on cabbage slaw (shaved with a knife, salt-massaged), scatter chickpeas. Crunch + silk = dinner.

3. One-pan chickpeas in tomato “butter” with rice

Reduce canned tomatoes in a skillet with oil until glossy and sweet, season, add chickpeas, simmer until the sauce clings. Spoon over rice. A final drizzle of oil acts like the missing butter. I licked the spoon like I was twelve.

4. Cabbage steaks with onion jam

Roast thick cabbage slabs, flip once for caramelized surfaces. Top with onions cooked low and slow. Side of tomato rice. Looks fancy; costs pocket change.

5. Five-ingredient soup that tastes like you tried

Onion → low and patient until golden. Add chopped cabbage, stir. Pour in water + tomatoes, simmer. Chickpeas in at the end. Pepper until it smells like soup, not sauce. It’s humble and strangely restorative.

Could I have used paprika or cumin?

Yes. But forcing flavor from technique — toasting rice, roasting chickpeas, charring cabbage, slow-cooking onions — was the whole point. I remembered how far a pan and patience go.

The habits I’m keeping (because they make weeknights easier)

1) Roast a texture topper once, use it all week

Those crispy chickpeas?

They turned salads into meals, soups into events, and bowls into “you made effort” territory.

I’ll keep roasting a tray of one crunchy thing—chickpeas, cubed tofu, torn bread, even cabbage chips—on Sundays. A handful on top buys you the feeling of “finished” without cooking a separate side.

2) Treat onions like a condiment, not an ingredient

Onion jam made everything dramatic.

I cooked a double batch low and slow (30–40 minutes, barely bubbling), then used it by the spoon: folded into rice, spread under roasted cabbage, stirred into tomatoes for instant depth.

Going forward, I’ll keep a small jar of caramelized onions in the fridge. They’re the vegan version of a bouillon cube that isn’t sad.

3) Reduce sauces until they cling, not splash

With no spices to hide behind, I learned to cook tomatoes down.

Ten extra minutes in the pan turned watery into glossy, sharp into sweet-savory. That’s the difference between “tomato soup poured on things” and “sauce.”

I’ll keep reducing sauces beyond where I think I should stop. When it coats a spoon like silk, it’s ready.

4) Char the vegetable, then season

High heat made cabbage taste like…not cabbage. (In a good way.)

The burned edges brought out sweetness and a whisper of smoke—like the flavor you chase in restaurants. I’ll keep doing this with broccoli, leeks, fennel, zucchini: sear hard, then salt, then finish low if needed.

Bland vegetables aren’t a produce problem; they’re a heat problem.

5) Make starches pull double duty

Plain rice can be sleepy. Tomato rice, onion rice, or “fried” rice with a handful of crunchy chickpeas? Awake.

I’ll keep cooking grains with a tiny identity: toast in oil first, bloom a spoon of tomato in the pot, or fold in onion jam at the end.

One extra minute turns filler into a feature.

6) Build plates with contrast choreography

This week forced me to compose plates by texture: something soft (rice/sauce), something juicy (tomatoes/cabbage), something crisp (chickpeas), something rich (olive oil).

That matrix is how you keep simple food from tasting “healthy” in the boring sense.

I’ll keep asking, “What’s the crunch? What’s the cream? What’s the acid?” before I plate.

7) Pre-decide three meals, not seven

Decision fatigue eats money.

With five ingredients, I made a tiny grid: soup night, roast + rice night, sauce + chickpeas night—and rotated.

I’ll keep writing a three-anchor plan on Sundays (soup/bowl/roast), then freestyling the rest. It calms 6 p.m. faster than another recipe tab.

8) Respect the finish line: oil, pepper, height

A drizzle of olive oil, a last aggressive twist of pepper, and stacking instead of smearing (cabbage on the rice, onions on the cabbage, chickpeas on top) changed the vibe from “homework” to “bistro.”

I’ll keep finishing dishes like I care. Because I do.

What I wouldn’t keep (honesty corner)

I missed acid. Tomatoes helped, but I would have married a lemon by Wednesday.

If I did this again, I’d swap cabbage for lemons or vinegar as one of the five—citrus unlocks flavor like a skeleton key. I also missed herbs. Even a handful of parsley can make beans taste like a new idea. And while the discipline was fun, I wouldn’t do “five ingredients only” during a week of heavy work travel—constraints plus logistics equals cranky.

But that’s the lesson: constraints are a teacher; they’re not a religion.

The goal isn’t to punish your pantry. It’s to learn what actually moves the needle when you’re tired and hungry.

A five-ingredient week, upgraded (if you want to try it)

If you’re vegan and curious, pick your five with roles in mind:

• Starch you love: rice, pasta, potatoes, polenta.

• Protein with texture: chickpeas, lentils, firm tofu.

• Acid/umami: canned tomatoes, lemons, capers, olives (choose one).

• Sweet/savory builder: onions or leeks.

• Sturdy veg: cabbage, broccoli, carrots, cauliflower.

Keep salt/pepper/oil/water as freebies. If you want one more freebie, make it vinegar. Then cook like a maximalist with technique: toast, char, reduce, rest.

A sample three-day spin with my original five:

• Day 1: Tomato rice + charred cabbage wedges + crispy chickpeas.

• Day 2: Brothy tomato-cabbage-chickpea soup + rice on the side.

• Day 3: Pan-reduced tomato “butter” chickpeas over onion rice + warm slaw.

Leftovers re-composed themselves: soup became stew over rice; rice became cakes crisped in a pan with chickpeas; slaw became a warm sauté under tomatoes. Cheap, cheerful, repeatable.

What changed after the experiment

I thought I’d sprint back to twenty ingredients. Instead, I started shopping narrower and cooking louder. I let heat do the talking. I stopped apologizing for simple. A bowl with four parts—grain, veg, protein, sauce—can feel like a little symphony if you give each part a job and finish with care.

My food budget relaxed because I wasn’t panic-buying condiments. My weeknights got calmer because I wasn’t courting six-recipe tabs while hanger gnawed at my ankles.

I also remembered why I’m vegan in the first place: to eat in a way that feels kind to my body, the planet, and the 6 p.m. version of me who just wants dinner to be good. Five ingredients were enough to make a good. Technique made it delicious.

That’s what I’m keeping.

So here’s your nudge: pick five, block an hour, and let your pan earn its keep. Roast something until it blushes. Reduce something until it shines. Pile it high, crack pepper like you mean it, and take a bite standing over the stove. If you close your eyes, you’ll hear a tiny applause.

That’s your taste buds. Or your neighbor knocking because your kitchen smells like you know things. Both are wins.