As a Disabled Cook, I Need Adaptable Recipes

When it comes to food prep, I have to be honest with myself about what I’m capable of—and, more importantly, what I’m not.

This is Minced Words, a column by Gabrielle Drolet on bringing the conversation about accessibility into the kitchen.

A few months ago, in a sweaty state of desperation, I googled the phrase “no-cook recipes,” a staple of summer for those of us with poor AC. Hungry and unwilling to turn my oven on, I read through uninspiring lists of cold sandwiches and overly complicated salads, struggling to find anything I actually wanted to make. As someone with a disability that limits how much I can slice, chop, peel and mince, fresh summer recipes are often too labor-intensive for me. That’s why I was so relieved when a trusted classic finally appeared in my search results: an Italian salad I knew I’d be able to make again and again.

Generally, caprese salad consists of just a few main ingredients: mozzarella, tomato, basil, and olive oil. You can easily bulk it up with salad greens and extra add-ins for a fuller meal or keep it minimal and serve it as a side. When I made it for the first time this summer, the thermostat in my apartment hovering around 86 degrees, I stuck to the basics. I tossed in bocconcini and tomatoes from the store down the road, added in fresh basil and spinach. I topped it all with oil, balsamic, and a pinch of salt. As I sank into the couch to eat it, I knew it would become my go-to summer lunch.

Since then, I’ve eaten what some might consider an alarming amount of caprese salad, constantly tweaking the recipe based on my needs. On a day where my symptoms are worse than usual, I might pick basil leaves from the overgrown plant on my balcony and toss them straight in; buy bocconcini and tear it into smaller pieces with my hands; use cherry tomatoes so tiny I can add them in whole. On a good day, I might finely chop my basil, reach for a ball of mozzarella I have to slice, and take more care in cutting my tomatoes. On a great day, I might elevate the meal entirely, adding fried sausage or fresh onion.

I’ve been making caprese salad so much because I love it—it’s fresh, simple, and doesn’t risk raising the temperature of my apartment too much. Beyond that, it’s a recipe that’s adaptable, which has become one of the most important qualities in a meal for me.

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Like so many of us, my earliest memories of cooking revolve around my mother. I remember late, hazy afternoons in the kitchen after school, telling my mom about my day while she prepped ingredients and the oven preheated.

As someone with a disability that limits how much I can chop, peel and mince, summer recipes are often too labor-intensive.

“Come help me,” she might say, and I—barely tall enough to see over the counter—would join her, my eyes wide as she expertly sliced vegetables or sautéed meat. She had a way of making everything look deceptively easy. Peeling a potato with the blade of a knife or coring a bell pepper seemed second nature to her.

I remember the frustration I felt in those early years of learning how to chop and peel and slice alongside her. It was hard to cut through carrots; my hands were unsteady, and the slices chunky and uneven. But I also remember the euphoria of finally getting it right later on, of joining my mother in the kitchen without needing her direction.

I first learned to prep ingredients at my mother’s side, closely mimicking everything I saw her do. Over time, I built on what she’d taught me. As I learned to adapt her methods and recipes to my preferences, I started enjoying cooking more. Then, when I became disabled last year in a way that made it harder to cook, I needed to learn to adapt in a new way—one that was based on my needs and capacity.

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I can’t remember the first time I made caprese salad, but I’m sure I was a purist about it. I likely arranged perfectly round slices of tomato and mozzarella on a plate, carefully placing basil leaves and drizzling olive oil in whatever way looked nicest. I didn’t yet have the confidence to deviate from whatever my mother or the internet had taught me, so I followed every recipe to the letter.

As I became a better and more intuitive cook, I allowed myself more freedom in the kitchen. I strayed from my recipes, swapping out certain ingredients for others or adding in new ones entirely. Recipes, if I used them at all, became loose guidelines rather than strict rules. This learning curve seems common among new and young cooks—as you become more skilled, you learn to adapt whatever you’re making to suit you best in the moment.

When disability started impacting how much I was capable of in the kitchen, this adaptability became more important than ever. It also became more complicated though. Altering recipes based on your whims or available ingredients is one thing; recognizing your limits and working within them is another.

When I make a caprese salad now, I think less about the exact flavors or textures I want in my meal and more about how much I’m capable of doing without hurting myself. This kind of decision-making is constant, and it extends well beyond the kitchen. When you’re disabled, it can sometimes feel like every task you do—slicing mozzarella, washing your face, going to a bar—has a cost associated with it, and you constantly have to assess its worth. How badly do I want to cook with this ingredient? If I chop this onion now, will I still be able to write an email later? How much will this exhaust me? Day-to-day life can feel like a constant series of cost-versus-benefit analyses as you weigh your desire to do something against its repercussions.

This decision-making process is commonly explained within the disabled community using spoon theory. Coined by Christine Miserandino in 2003, the cutlery-themed metaphor equates one’s available energy with spoons. Everyone starts the day with a certain number of spoons, and you lose some of them for each task you complete. Certain tasks, like getting out of bed, might only require one spoon; others, like going to work, might require ten. While abled people generally have an unlimited amount of spoons, disabled people have a finite supply—so we have to use them carefully.

What makes this even more complicated is that, for many people, disability isn’t static; as your symptoms fluctuate, your limitations do too. A task that only requires a few spoons on one day might require an impossible amount the next, meaning you constantly have to reevaluate how much you’re capable of. The constantly changing nature of disability is one disabled people know well, but that is barely discussed in popular culture. While there’s a growing number of conversations about what accessibility in the kitchen looks like and how to adapt recipes for different disability needs, we neglect to talk about how peoples’ needs might fluctuate and how to meet them when they do.

This is all to say that adapting a recipe to your needs can be more complicated than it appears. In caprese-salad terms, I might be able to carefully slice heirloom tomatoes and mozzarella today but be obligated to opt for cherry tomatoes and mini bocconcini tomorrow. My choice will depend on a few factors, including not only how much pain I’m in at the moment but also what I have planned for the rest of the day. Even if my symptoms are mild, I need to think ahead: I can’t waste my limited spoons on slicing tomatoes if I need to do something physically demanding afterward, like working or cleaning my apartment.

Altering recipes based on your whims or ingredients is one thing; recognizing your limits is another.

Decisions about what ingredients to use and how I prepare them are loaded. Each ingredient needs to be carefully considered alongside my needs and limitations, meaning I have to be honest with myself about what I’m capable of—and, more importantly, what I’m not. After years of cooking freely, accepting that I had to keep these considerations in mind—that I could no longer cook the way I always had—was hard.

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When I first developed chronic-pain issues that impacted the function in my hands, it felt like I was starting from scratch again. By this point in my life—twenty-three years old, in my fifth year away from home—I was a comfortable, confident cook who navigated my kitchen with ease, the same way my mother had when I was young.

Food prep had become a comforting task for me. I relished in the care that went into a meal before anything even hit the pan, smashing garlic cloves with the flat of a knife and cleaning off mushroom caps with a paper towel. I might put on a podcast or an album and take my time as I made my way down a list of ingredients. Food prep can be a deeply enjoyable, indulgent, and even personal part of cooking, and I’m far from alone in my love of it: In the past few years, many have written about the cozy, even meditative nature of slicing fruit, describing it as an act of love that connects people to their cultures and families.

Now, suddenly, tasks that had become second nature to me were once again foreign. Every part of food prep—from opening cans to shredding cheese to chopping veggies—was a challenge, if it was even possible. After years of cooking without thinking much about it, I struggled to remove garlic cloves from their papery little layers. I lost the ability to cleanly core a pepper. I once again cut carrots into chunky, uneven slices, unable to hold a knife steadily.

I learned a few techniques that made things easier, like how to hold a knife without putting too much pressure on my wrists. But relearning was less about finding new methods and more about discovering how to find (and respect) my own limits. I knew that I could reach for pre-minced or pre-shredded ingredients and that I could simply omit the things that were hardest to prep. The problem was that I didn’t always know what I was capable of on any given day, or how to be patient with myself when it wasn’t very much.

I felt this deeply last winter, as snow piled up on unplowed sidewalks and wind rattled my windows. I felt nostalgic for the winter meals my mom made when I was a kid: the thick, cozy smell of lentil soup that sometimes greeted me when I got home. Craving the same kind of meal I’d loved growing up, I followed a lentil-soup recipe with just a few adaptations. I opened a can of diced tomatoes with relative ease. I clumsily sliced carrots and chopped an onion. I stirred everything in a heavy pot. Pain pulsed in my hands and elbows from the effort, but it was a trade I was willing (and able) to make that day. As the soup simmered and the smell of broth spread through my little apartment, I knew it would be worth it.

The next week, I tried to make the recipe again despite doing worse physically. I was unwilling to acknowledge how my symptoms had fluctuated. But from the beginning, the pain and numbness were hard to ignore. My can opener could barely make it around a quarter of the rim. I decided to exclude tomatoes from the recipe and moved on to chopping carrots and onions. But chopping wasn’t any easier—searing pain immediately stopped me from getting very far, no matter how badly I wanted to. I turned off the element on the stove. I set aside my pot, oil shimmering at the bottom. I put the carrots back in the fridge. I ordered in.

The ability to alter a recipe based on your needs might seem easy. But to me, it feels like a triumph that I’m able to do it comfortably: to change how I cook based on how I’m feeling, what I’m craving, and what I’m up for. And whatever I choose, I’m happy it was made as painlessly as possible.