Remember that banana blossom barigoule I showed you this summer?
Check the recipe here if you missed it!

That classic French dish was all about different technique, a warm traditional dish I learned in Michelin kitchens across London.

But here’s what I don’t know: when I left fine dining behind, my first business wasn’t another fancy restaurant.

It was The Fish Out.

I bought a van, a few fryers, and opened a stall in Kingston upon Thames. Then I traveled the streets of London doing street food! No white tablecloths, no tasting menus, just me and a queue of hungry people who wanted something real.

And the star of my menu? Vegan fish and chips made with that same banana blossom.

Today, I’m bringing that recipe back, but with a twist that bridges both worlds: crispy banana blossom “fish,” and a warm potato espuma!

Techniques travel with you, they do not belong anywhere else. Everything collides on what you decide to create.

So let’s cook.

Full recipe below.

Servings: 4–6

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You can keep buying instant tea, but there’s something about spending an entire day watching water evaporate that changes your relationship with what you drink.

Last week, I filled my largest pot with water and tea leaves. My kitchen smelled like I was running an illegal tea operation and my partner looked me as I’d lost my mind. Thirty hours later, I had a dark, putty-like substance that looked nothing like tea and everything like something a medieval alchemist would be proud of.

This is cha gao (茶膏) aka tea resin, and it’s one of the most ingenious inventions to come out of ancient China.

A single fingernail-sized piece dissolves instantly in hot water and gives you a full-bodied cup of tea. No leaves. No steeping. No equipment.

Just tea, concentrated down to its absolute essence.

And yes, you can make it at home.

The Problem That Created Cha Gao

Imagine you’re a merchant in 8th century China during the Tang Dynasty. You’re about to embark on a journey along the Silk Road, a route that could take months, even years. You’ll cross deserts where water is scarce, mountain passes where every ounce of weight matters, and climates so varied that fresh tea leaves would spoil within weeks.

But you need your tea, of course.

You see tea is much more than a beverage in Chinese culture. A medicine, a ritual, social currency, and comfort. Going without it for months is not an option.

Fresh tea leaves are bulky and deteriorate quickly. Dried leaves are better but still take up significant space and require proper brewing equipment. You need something that’s lightweight, shelf-stable, takes up minimal space, and can be prepared with nothing but hot water.

This is the problem that gave birth to cha gao.

The earliest records of tea resin date back to the Tang Dynasty (618-907 CE), though some historians believe the technique may be even older. The process was simple in concept but required patience: boil tea leaves for an extended period, strain out the solids, then continue reducing the liquid until it becomes a thick paste. Once cooled, this paste solidifies into a resin that can last for months or even years without refrigeration.

Merchants, monks, and travelers would carry small pieces of this resin wrapped in cloth or stored in small containers. When they wanted tea, they’d simply break off a piece, drop it in hot water, and watch it dissolve.

Instant tea, centuries before Lipton thought of tea bags.

From Necessity to Luxury

What started as a practical solution for travelers eventually became something else entirely: a luxury item for the imperial court.

During the Song Dynasty (960-1279 CE), cha gao production became increasingly sophisticated. Imperial tea makers developed techniques to create resins from the finest tea leaves, resulting in products so concentrated and flavorful that they were reserved exclusively for the emperor and high-ranking officials.

The process became a closely guarded secret, with master tea makers spending years perfecting their craft.

These imperial cha gao were nothing like the travel rations of earlier centuries. They were works of art. Dark, glossy, and aromatic, often molded into decorative shapes or stamped with imperial seals.

A single piece could cost more than an average person’s monthly wages.

The Qing Dynasty (1644-1912 CE) saw cha gao reach its peak of refinement. Historical records describe resins so pure and concentrated that a piece the size of a grain of rice could flavor an entire pot of water. The imperial tea gardens in Yunnan province became famous for producing the finest cha gao in the empire, using ancient tea trees and traditional reduction methods passed down through generations.

But then, like many traditional crafts, cha gao nearly disappeared.

The fall of the Qing Dynasty, the tumult of the early 20th century, and the rise of modern tea production methods meant that the painstaking process of making tea resin fell out of favor.

Why spend days reducing tea when you could simply package dried leaves? Why preserve an ancient technique when modern convenience was the future?

For decades, cha gao existed only in historical texts and the memories of elderly tea masters in remote mountain villages.

The Revival

In the early 2000s, something interesting happened. A new generation of tea enthusiasts in China began seeking out traditional production methods, driven by a desire to reconnect with cultural heritage and a growing skepticism of mass-produced products. They traveled to Yunnan, to the same mountain villages where tea had been grown for centuries, and found elderly farmers who still remembered how their grandparents made cha gao.

They found living traditions, kept alive by people who made tea resin for their own use: for travel, for convenience, for the simple pleasure of having good tea anywhere.

The modern revival of cha gao has taken two paths.

On one hand, there are now commercial producers who make tea resin in food-grade facilities using temperature-controlled equipment and quality standards. These products are available online, marketed to travelers, campers, and busy professionals who want quality tea without the ritual.

On the other hand, there’s a growing community of people making it at home, the traditional way, with nothing but a pot, heat, time, and patience.

I fell into the latter category.
Make Your Own, is a mantra I live by and couldn’t do otherwise.

Why I Decided to Make My Own

I’d been drinking tea for years, but always in the conventional way: leaves, hot water, steeping, straining. I’d accumulated teapots, gaiwans, and enough tea ware to stock a small shop. I thought I understood tea.

Then I watched a video of tea farmers in Yunnan making cha gao in a giant wok over a wood fire There’s a dude, I think his name’s Jessie who made a business out of it and he’s a proper tea nerd.

Anyway, the process was mesmerizing for someone like me. Hours of stirring, the liquid slowly darkening and thickening, the transformation from something recognizable (tea) into something almost alien (a dark, glossy resin).

What struck was the philosophy behind it., the rich history, culture and many variations. The alignment with my book The Mindful Kitchen Map, forget about convenience or efficiency in the modern sense, and focus on concentration, taking something abundant and reducing it to its essence.

Again it was about patience and the willingness to spend an entire day, and half of the next one, watching water evaporate because the end result was worth it.

I wanted to understand that intellectually, and experience it through my hands.

That is how I learn everything,

So I ordered quality shu puer tea (cooked/fermented puer, which is traditional for cha gao), cleared my schedule for a weekend, and committed to the process.

What Actually Happens When You Make Cha Gao

The reality of making tea resin is both simpler and more complex than you’d expect.

The basic principle is straightforward: you’re extracting all the soluble compounds from tea leaves into water, then removing the water. What remains is a concentrated form of everything that makes tea taste like tea: the polyphenols, the amino acids, the trace minerals, the aromatic compounds.

But here’s what the simple descriptions don’t tell you: the process is long, requires constant attention, and goes through distinct phases that you need to recognize.

In the first few hours, you’re just making very strong tea. The water darkens, the leaves unfurl and release their flavor, and your kitchen starts to smell amazing. This phase is deceptive because it feels like you’re making progress, but you’re actually still at the very beginning.

After several hours of simmering, you’ll notice the liquid has reduced significantly. This is when you strain out the leaves. What you’re left with looks like extremely dark tea, almost black, but still clearly liquid.

Now the real work begins.

The next phase is the long reduction. You’re evaporating water, slowly concentrating the tea extract. This takes hours, many hours of gentle simmering. The liquid gradually becomes thicker, more syrupy. The smell intensifies to the point where it’s almost overwhelming.

Imagine the aroma of twenty pots of tea brewing simultaneously in a small space.

You’ll know you’re getting close when the liquid starts to behave differently. Instead of splashing like water, it moves more slowly. Bubbles form and pop more deliberately. The surface develops a slight sheen.

This is the critical phase where you need to pay close attention. The difference between perfect cha gao and burnt, bitter sludge is a matter of minutes.

You’re looking for a consistency similar to thick honey or molasses which should coat a spoon and slowly drip off rather than pour.

Once you reach this stage, you remove it from heat immediately and pour it onto a non-stick surface (silicone mat or parchment paper works well). As it cools, it transforms again - from a thick liquid to a putty-like substance, and finally to a solid resin that’s still slightly pliable.

The entire process, from start to finish, took me about thirty hours spread across two days.

The Math That Makes It Worth It

Here’s where it gets interesting from a practical standpoint.

With the amount of tea I used, in normal brewing I would get maybe hundred sessions of gongfu-style brewing (the traditional Chinese method of multiple short steeps).

Being generous, perhaps two hundred.

From that same amount of tea, I produced enough resin for over three hundred individual servings.

Same tea leaves.

But it’s not just about quantity. Each of those servings is:

• Instantly soluble (no steeping required)

• Shelf-stable for months without refrigeration

• Portable (I can carry dozens of servings in a small tin)

• Consistent (every serving tastes the same)

• Equipment-free (just add hot water)

For someone who travels frequently, camps, or simply wants good tea at the office without bringing a full tea setup, this is transformative.

The Taste Test

I’ll be honest: I was skeptical about whether my cha gao could actually taste good. The idea of “instant tea” carries connotations of compromise, of sacrificing quality for convenience.

I was wrong.

When I dropped my first piece of homemade cha gao into hot water, it dissolved within seconds, creating a deep reddish-brown liquor that looked identical to properly brewed puer tea. The aroma was rich and earthy, with notes of wood and a slight sweetness.

The taste was remarkable.

Full-bodied, smooth, with the characteristic depth of aged puer but without any of the bitterness that can come from over-steeping. It was clean, balanced, and genuinely delicious.

More importantly, it tasted like the tea I’d started with. The reduction process had concentrated the flavors without distorting them.

Like actual tea, just in a different form.

I’ve since experimented with different types of tea, red tea (what Westerners call black tea), aged puer, and even a batch with dried orange peel mixed in. Each one captures the essential character of the original tea while offering the convenience of instant preparation.

Why This Matters Beyond Tea

Making cha gao taught me something that extends beyond tea itself: the value of transformation through patience.

We live in a culture obsessed with efficiency, with getting results as quickly as possible. The idea of spending two days to make something you could buy online seems absurd by modern standards.

But those hours were spent understanding a process, connecting with a tradition that spans centuries, and creating something with my own hands that I know intimately, from the quality of the tea I started with to the exact moment I pulled it from the heat.

There’s a particular satisfaction that comes from this kind of making. It’s different from the satisfaction of buying something well-made, or even from making something quickly. It’s the satisfaction of committing to a process that requires patience, attention, and trust that the end result will be worth the investment of time.

If you are familiar with my work, this is the philosophy behind my cheeses and all the recipes you find in my book.

In an age where we can have almost anything delivered to our door within days (or hours), the act of making something slowly, deliberately, and with your own hands becomes almost radical.

The process itself becomes meditative. Standing over a pot, stirring occasionally, watching the liquid slowly transform, there’s something deeply grounding about it.

You can’t rush it. You can’t multitask your way through it. You have to be present, attentive, patient.

A real treat for neurodivergent mind, if that is the label that we’ve got nowadays.

In that patience, something shifts. You stop thinking about the end product and start appreciating the process itself. The way the steam rises. The deepening color. The evolving aroma. The gradual thickening.

This is what we’ve lost in our optimization of everything.

You can still buy all the products you want, but do not deprive yourself from the experience of making them. The knowledge that comes from watching a transformation unfold over hours. The intimacy with materials and processes that can only come from direct, sustained engagement.

This apply to everything in life. Not only food. You could making a website, a photo sequence, a piece of ceramic or a piece of code. A soulful creator, creates and lose himself in the making.

The Traditional Knowledge

What fascinates me most about cha gao is how it represents a particular kind of knowledge, the kind that can only be transmitted through doing.

You can read about making tea resin. You can watch videos. You can study the chemistry of tea extraction and water evaporation. But until you’ve actually stood over a pot for hours, watching the liquid reduce, learning to recognize the subtle changes in consistency and aroma that signal each phase, you don’t really understand it.

This is embodied knowledge, the kind that lives in your hands and your senses rather than in your head. It’s the knowledge that traditional craftspeople have always possessed; the ability to read materials, to sense when something is ready, to make micro-adjustments based on feel rather than measurement.

In the mountains of Yunnan, elderly tea makers can tell you exactly when the cha gao is ready just by looking at it, by the way it moves in the pot, by the smell. They don’t use thermometers or timers. They’ve made it hundreds of times, and their bodies know.

I’m nowhere near that level of mastery. My first batch was almost perfect though. Slightly over-reduced in some spots, but I blame my pot.

But even that imperfection taught me something. The next batch will be better.

I'll be using the terracotta pot for the reduction.

This is the other thing we’ve lost: the acceptance that mastery takes time, that your first attempt won’t be perfect, and that’s okay. We expect instant expertise, immediate results. But some things can only be learned through repetition, through failure, through the slow accumulation of experience.

The Economics of Time

Let’s address the obvious question: is it worth it?

From a purely economic standpoint, probably not. I could have bought commercial cha gao for less than the cost of the tea I used, and certainly for less than the value of twenty hours of my time.

But that calculation misses the point entirely.

The value it’s in the experience of making it. It’s in the knowledge gained. It’s in the connection to tradition. It’s in the satisfaction of creating something with your own hands.

It’s also in the stories. Every time I make tea from my homemade cha gao, I remember the process. I remember the smell of my kitchen after hour ten. I remember the moment when the liquid finally reached the right consistency and I had to move fast to get it off the heat. I remember the satisfaction of seeing it solidify into something usable.

That’s worth something that can’t be measured in dollars or hours.

There’s also something to be said for understanding where things come from. In our modern supply chains, we’re so disconnected from the origins of what we consume. We buy products without any idea of how they’re made, what goes into them, what skills are required to produce them.

I crave the visceral understanding of what goes into everything, but that’s just me.

When I see it for sale, I understand why it costs what it costs. I appreciate the skill and patience required. I have respect for the people who make it commercially, at scale, consistently.

This kind of understanding changes how you consume. You become more thoughtful, more appreciative, more willing to pay for quality because you understand what quality requires.

What I Learned

Beyond the specific knowledge of how to make tea resin, this project taught me several broader lessons:

Patience is a skill. We talk about patience as if it’s a personality trait, something you either have or don’t have. But it’s actually a skill that can be developed through practice. Standing over a pot for hours, resisting the urge to turn up the heat or rush the process, is practice in patience.

Transformation takes time. Whether it’s tea becoming resin, or a person developing a skill, or a project coming to fruition, real transformation can’t be rushed. The time is part of the process, not an obstacle to overcome.

Quality matters. I learned this the hard way when I tried making a batch with mediocre tea. The resulting cha gao was drinkable but unremarkable. When you’re concentrating something down to its essence, you’re concentrating everything, including flaws. Start with quality materials.

Traditional knowledge is valuable. In our rush toward innovation and progress, we sometimes dismiss traditional methods as outdated or inefficient. But these methods often contain wisdom that’s been refined over centuries. They work, and they work for reasons that aren’t always immediately obvious.

Making things yourself changes your relationship with them. I drink my homemade cha gao differently than I would drink commercial tea resin. There’s a connection, an appreciation, a sense of ownership that comes from having made it myself.

Why You Should Try It

I’m not going to tell you that everyone should make cha gao. It’s time-consuming, requires attention, and the end product is readily available for purchase.

But if any of the following resonate with you, you should consider trying it:

• You’re interested in traditional food preservation techniques

• You want to understand tea at a deeper level

• You’re looking for a meditative, hands-on project

• You travel frequently and want portable, high-quality tea

• You’re curious about historical food preparation methods

• You want to develop patience and attention as skills

• You find satisfaction in making things from scratch

The process will teach you things that can’t be learned any other way. You’ll develop an appreciation for traditional knowledge. You’ll create something genuinely useful. And you’ll have a story to tell.

Plus, your kitchen will smell absolutely incredible for an entire day or two.

The Recipe

So you want to make your own cha gao. Here’s exactly how to do it, with specific quantities, timings, and detailed instructions based on my experience.

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Soft, pillowy donuts with glossy glazes and fillings that come together into the perfect bite.

Keeping things fun, simple and refined with a dough with no equals.

Serve them as a treat, for brunch, or whenever you need something sweet and homemade.

Full recipe below.

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A fresh Thai-inspired corn salad.

Raw corn salad, with a sharp, umami vinaigrette that come together in a simple bowl that tastes just divine The heat from the hot sauce and the creaminess of the vegan mozzarella balance everything out.

Serve it as a side, a light lunch, or a base for a bigger bowl.

Get the full recipe below.

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A Japanese fermentation technique.

The garlic develops slowly over weeks to months, becoming soft, sweet, golden-brown, and deeply umami. The longer it ferments, the deeper the flavor and softer the texture become.

Eat the fermented cloves whole as a condiment, mash into sauces, add to ramen, spread on rice, or use in stir-fries.

The miso acts as both fermenting medium and preservative.

Get the full recipe below.

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Oyster mushrooms double-dredged in buttermilk and seasoned flour fry up with enough structure to work as a burger patty.

The mushroom stays meaty inside the crispy coating.

The double dredge is critical for keeping the coating attached during frying.

Feeds two people.

The “Film Burger” name references a Lomography collaboration, the merge of gastronomy and photography. Here’ the link if you want to dive deeper into the philisophy!

Get the full recipe below.

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Dubai chocolate bars went viral for stuffing kataifi (shredded phyllo) and pistachio cream between chocolate layers. This version swaps that for banana, sun-dried soft banana julienned and mixed with matcha-macadamia spread, plus chopped banana chips for crunch.

The banana chips give crunch similar to kataifi’s texture. The matcha-macadamia spread is green, creamy, and sweet. The sun-dried banana adds chewy sweetness. This makes two bars.

The execution depends entirely on having good matcha-macadamia spread, if it’s grainy or separated, the bar won’t work.

Get the full recipe below.

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Pomelo is grapefruit’s giant, sweeter cousin, thick pith, easy-to-peel segments that shred into juicy pieces without bitterness.

This salad works because of contrast: sweet-tart pomelo, umami from black garlic dressing, crunch from crushed peanuts, acidity from cherry tomatoes.

It’s funky without being aggressive.

The pomelo releases juice as you toss, which dilutes the dressing into a light coating.

This works as a starter or side, feeds two people generously.

Pomelos are seasonal (winter through spring), so swap regular grapefruit if you can’t find them, just supreme the segments to remove membranes since grapefruit is more bitter.

Get the full recipe below.

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Hasselback technique, slicing accordion-style without cutting all the way through, works for more than potatoes. This stuffs a bread loaf with my vegan camembert and thyme, then bakes until the cheese melts into every crevice.

Wrap loosely in parchment, tie with kitchen twine to hold shape, bake at 180°C for fifteen minutes.

The bread toasts, the cheese melts, the thyme perfumes everything.

Unwrap and serve immediately while it’s still pullable, the bread tears apart at the slices with melted cheese stretching between.

The optional lychee and butterfly pea flower marmalade adds sweet-floral contrast against the rich cheese, but it’s not necessary.

Feeds two people as a shared appetizer or decadent snack.

The success depends entirely on having good vegan camembert that actually melts, if it just sits there solid, the dish doesn’t work.

Get the full recipe below.

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Most people have never seen a banana blossom, let alone cooked one. It’s a tight purple flower that peels like an artichoke and tastes like hearts of palm met asparagus.

This recipe treats it like a French barigoule, braised low and slow in white wine, vegetable stock, and aromatics until it goes completely tender. Forty-five minutes start to finish.

The result tastes expensive and looks stunning on a plate with toasted bread and good olive oil. If you can find banana blossom at an Asian market, this is worth the hunt.

Get the full recipe below.

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Wasamisù (lemon tiramisu) layers Wasa crispbread soaked in lemon syrup with whipped lemon cream.

Wasa crispbread replaces traditional savoiardi (ladyfingers). The texture is different but work perfectly. When soaked, it goes soft but retains some structure.

This no-bake, easy-to-make dessert is refreshing, indulgent, and bursting with citrusy goodness.

A unique take on tiramisu that’s perfect for summer or any time you crave something light yet decadent!

Feeds six people.

Get the full recipe below.

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Yuzu miso mayo is tofu based, with white miso, yuzu juice, mirin, maple syrup, toasted sesame oil, and optional dijon mustard until creamy.

Blend one to two minutes, scraping down sides, until ultra-smooth and creamy. Transfer to a jar, refrigerate up to five to six days.

Yuzu is a Japanese citrus with floral, tart flavor, somewhere between lemon, lime, and grapefruit. Fresh yuzu is hard to find outside Japan, so bottled yuzu juice works fine.

White miso adds umami and saltiness.

Mirin and maple syrup balance the acid with sweetness.

Toasted sesame oil gives nuttiness without overwhelming.

This is much lower in fat than oil-based mayo since tofu provides body instead of oil. With 13 grams of protein come from the tofu, unusual for mayo, which is typically protein-free. Tofu does contain soy lecithin and protein that help create creamy texture.

Use this on grain bowls, roasted vegetables, or as sushi dipping sauce. Good as a drizzle or dip.

Get the full recipe below.

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The kimchi brine provides probiotics, salt, funk, and tang, it’s essentially a fermented starter.

Gochujang adds Korean chili paste sweetness and heat.

Cashews create the creamy base without oil.

Additional probiotics complement the existing lacto-fermented microbes from the brine.

It’s a must, just try it!

Get the full recipe below.

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Colomba pasquale is Italian Easter bread shaped like a dove, traditionally a multi-day project with natural leavening, multiple doughs, and precise temperature control.

This simplified version uses fresh yeast and cuts the process to about 18 hours total. Start with a poolish. Make the first dough, knead until smooth. Proof 12-14 hours at 25-26°C until tripled.

Add the second dough ingredients. Develop until elastic, fold in chocolate chips and candied orange peel.

Divide into three pieces—one large for the body, two smaller for wings, shape into a dove in a colomba mold. Proof one hour at 30°C. Mix almond glaze to spreadable consistency, spread over the top, scatter whole almonds. Bake at 160°C for 50-70 minutes.

Cool upside down so it doesn’t collapse from its own weight. Dust with icing sugar.

Symbol of peace, hope and unity, celebration of renewal and rebirth, the arrival of another spring, a new cycle of abundance and joy!

Feeds twelve. The texture will almost match artisan versions and the recipe is approachable for home bakers.

Get the full recipe below.

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A classic perfect for cozy dinners and special occasions alike. Dive into layers of creamy, garlicky goodness straight from the earth.

The cream needs to be rich and fatty to work, cashew cream, coconut cream, or my homemade vegan cooking cream. Thin plant milks won’t coat the potatoes or create the luscious texture dauphinoise needs.

This is indulgent food, not everyday fare.

Feeds four people as a side dish. Best served hot or warm, it firms up as it cools and can be reheated, but the texture is best fresh from the oven.

Get the full recipe below.

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Khanom krok are Thai coconut-rice pancakes cooked in specialized dimpled pans until the bottoms crisp and the tops stay custardy.

Cook five-plus minutes without flipping until the bottoms are dark golden and crispy, the tops set but still jiggly.

The cooked rice in the shell batter gives body and slight chew. The filling stays molten in the center.

Serve them stacked and hot, they lose their textural contrast as they cool.

The specialized pan is necessary; a regular skillet won’t give you the crispy curved bottom. Feeds six people as a snack.

Palm sugar adds caramel notes that white sugar can’t replicate, but you can substitute if needed.

Street vendors in Thailand cook these continuously, pulling them hot from the pan all day.

Get the full recipe below.

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Adaptogenic mayo is aquafaba-based mayonnaise with ashwagandha and lion’s mane.

The technique is standard aquafaba mayo, slow oil incorporation creates the emulsion. Add the powders at the end since they can interfere with emulsification if added too early.

Store refrigerated in a sterilized jar up to one week.

Ashwagandha and lion’s mane are adaptogens, substances that supposedly help the body handle stress. Ashwagandha reduce cortisol. Lion’s mane have cognitive benefits and nerve growth factor stimulation in petri dishes.

Get the full recipe below.

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Is a convenient alternative to saffron, which is quite expensive and labor-intensive if self grown.

Poor man’s saffron uses dried calendula petals for golden color and mild flavor instead of expensive saffron.

By harvesting and drying these vibrant flowers, you can create a delightful risotto that’s almost as golden as the traditional saffron dish, and as flavourful and delicious!

Calendula is a perfect companion plant that can be grown in a variety of climates and requires minimal maintenance, is easy to grow and harvest in your own garden, ensuring that you’re getting a fresh, organic product while supporting biodiversity in your place.

It is not just a pretty flower but it has been used for centuries for its medicinal properties. It’s known for its anti-inflammatory, antifungal, and antibacterial benefits.

A must in your diet to provide a natural boost to your immune system and overall health.

Calendula is safe to eat and pretty in dishes. The flavor is mild, slightly bitter.

Get the full recipe below.

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Who knew making your own ketchup could be so easy and delicious?

Homemade ketchup not only tastes better than store-bought but also allows you to control the ingredients for a richer, more flavorful condiment.

Homemade ketchup cooks fresh tomatoes with vinegar, sugar, and spices into thick condiment.

Taste and adjust seasoning. Cool, transfer to a jar, refrigerate. Keeps about two weeks.

The spices are what make ketchup taste like ketchup instead of just sweetened tomato sauce. Store-bought versions often use “natural flavors” to mask the fact that they’re mostly tomato paste, corn syrup, and vinegar. Homemade lets you control sugar levels.

This takes about an hour of active cooking. Whether that’s worth it versus buying a bottle depends on how much you care about controlling ingredients and whether you enjoy the process.

So, are you ready to switch to homemade ketchup and enjoy a tastier, healthier condiment?

Get the full recipe below.

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Zero-waste watermelon sour candy uses candied watermelon rind, the white part between the green skin and red flesh that’s usually thrown away.

Can be flavored with anything you like, as you start from a pretty blank page.

Roll in a mixture of granulated sugar and citric acid while still tacky. The citric acid gives sour punch, the sugar adds sweetness and prevents sticking. Let dry completely on parchment.

The texture is chewy-firm, similar to candied ginger or Turkish delight. The watermelon rind itself is mild and takes on whatever flavor you add.

This is a creative way to use waste and makes interesting candy. It reduces waste.

Get the full recipe below.

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