Cooking without fire / The Condimentary

Recently, Juan Roig, owner of Mercadona—one of the largest supermarket chains in Spain—said that “in 2050, kitchens will disappear because people will stop cooking at home.” It's a possible, and sad, future, especially in countries where many have grown accustomed to not turning on the stove, while entire generations are becoming increasingly complacent and lazy, leaving everything in the hands of technology or home delivery. But if the kitchen shuts down, what part of us shuts down too?

Being human isn't just existing: it's doing, it's thinking. It's imagining. It's transforming matter and thoughts with the hands, the mind, and the heart. It's inventing what isn't there and turning it into nourishment, into a story, into an idea. It's making mistakes, doubting, and trying again. It's creating bonds that endure, connect, and sustain.

Cooking is being alive. You don't need to be a chef or have sophisticated utensils: all you need is a pot, a knife, a pair of hands, fire, and time. It's a simple and profound gesture: cutting, mixing, seasoning, tasting, adjusting. It's about taking care of yourself and caring. It's saying: "I'm here, with you or with me, and I take and value this time."

Thinking and writing also humanizes us. Because in doing so, we exercise consciousness, memory, imagination, doubt, and emotion. Artificial intelligence can put words together, but it can't dream or invent moving flavors. I asked ChatGPT what a Bogotá stew tastes like, and he replied: 'a warm cloud on a cold day.' A poem for air freshener: a false aroma without a soul.

In From Animals to Gods , Harari argues that what made us human was the cognitive revolution: imagining, telling ourselves stories, and believing them together. If we let machines pretend to think, read, cook, and write for us, we extinguish that flame . It's like eating frozen ajiaco: it looks homemade, but it never had fire, a wooden spoon, or a grandmother to take care of it. We lose identity and humanity while a robot prepares a heartless dish or puts words in our mouths. Thus, we lose enjoyment, essence, and, above all, the privilege of thinking. A life without fire is a life without a home.

To love is human. It's to create and desire. It's to resist haste. It's artisanal: it's imagined, kneaded, caressed, kissed, smelled, tasted, and felt again and again, like a loaf of bread that only rises if we give it time. Cooking is that: it's loving.

If we stop thinking, writing, loving, imagining, and, of course, cooking, and depend on industry and technology, what's left? If we are what we eat, we'll just be automated consumers, controlled by convenience. Nothing lasts, nothing excites, nothing connects.

Perhaps what makes us human is precisely not giving up on that. Resisting is lighting the stove, writing a letter by hand, inviting someone to eat what you cooked. Loving when everything falls apart. Thinking, creating, failing, understanding, and starting over.