26. March 2026

The Pan by the Cooker

Small habits, slower kitchens, and the things we choose to keep

There was always a pan by my Pop’s cooker.

It never seemed to move. It sat there, darkened by years of use, with a little pool of lard or dripping waiting for whatever was going to be cooked next — usually a pan of chipped spuds. That pan was part of the rhythm of the kitchen.

Back then, nothing was called “sustainable” or “regenerative”. It was just how things were done. Fat wasn’t something to be feared or thrown away. It was something you saved, because it still had a job to do.

I think about that pan a lot now.

I remember how much I loved Pop’s fried potato slices, and all the other lovely things he used to cook. Scouse was a particular favourite — though my mum says we never liked it. I blame my siblings for that, because I loved it. Ham hock and pea soup too… old-fashioned as it may seem, there is something deeply comforting about it.

So much of modern life feels rushed and wasteful. We buy things quickly, throw them away just as quickly, and rarely stop to notice how they were made or where they came from. Food, especially, has become something that arrives in packets, already stripped of its story.

But in a slower kitchen, every part has meaning.

A spoonful of fat left in the pan becomes tomorrow’s roast potatoes. A scrap of skin becomes something warm and useful (refried on top of a risotto is a firm family favourite). Even the simplest meals feel different when you know the care that went into them.

This is how I use food now.

I save jars (yes, I am absolutely a jar hoarder), and when I roast a chicken, any fat left in the pan is carefully scraped into one and tucked into the fridge — because there will always be a use for it. Nothing feels like waste when you start to look at it differently.

Peelings are saved and frozen, ready for the next pot of stock. Bones are never just bones. Little bits and pieces that might once have been thrown away now feel like the beginning of something else.

Small habits become part of the rhythm of a home.

It’s not about being perfect, or never wasting anything — but about noticing. About valuing what you have a little more. About slowing down just enough to see the usefulness in things that might otherwise be overlooked.

And in many ways, this way of thinking has quietly shaped Mary Mint too.

A love of simple, natural ingredients. A respect for where things come from. A desire to use what we have well, and with care.

Because sometimes the smallest things — a jar in the fridge, a spoonful of fat, a habit passed down — are the ones that stay with us the longest.

You don’t need a big garden, or a farmhouse, or a perfect routine to live this way. Sometimes it starts with something very small — a pan you keep by the stove, a habit of saving instead of throwing away, a decision to cook just a little more thoughtfully.

Those small things add up.

And in their own quiet way, they connect us back to the land, the animals, and the people who grow our food — even when we’re standing in an ordinary kitchen, on an ordinary day.

And perhaps, that’s where it begins.