All the pre-made sauces in a jar, and frozen and canned

In the words of Todd English, “All the pre-made sauces in a jar, and frozen and canned vegetables, processed meats, and cheeses which are loaded with artificial ingredients and sodium can get in the way of a healthy diet. My number one advice is to eat fresh, and seasonally,” there resounds the ancient truth that life flourishes in simplicity and decays in excess. Though he speaks as a modern chef, his wisdom reaches back to the hearths of our ancestors, who drew their nourishment from the soil, the river, and the rhythm of the seasons. In these words, English calls us to return to harmony with nature—to cast aside what is artificial and to rediscover the purity of real food, which has sustained humankind since the dawn of civilization.

To eat fresh and seasonally is to live in tune with the great cycles of the earth. The ancients knew this harmony well. The Greeks worshiped Demeter, goddess of grain and harvest, who taught that life itself depends upon reverence for the land. The Romans, too, followed the wisdom of the seasons; their farmers prayed to Ceres before planting, and celebrated the first fruits with feasts of gratitude. Food, for them, was sacred—a gift from nature, not a product of convenience. Todd English’s warning against processed foods echoes this old reverence, for what is processed is divorced from the soil that gives it life. To eat without connection to the earth is to eat without soul.

When he speaks of “pre-made sauces in a jar, frozen and canned vegetables, processed meats, and cheeses loaded with artificial ingredients and sodium,” he warns of the illusion of plenty. These are the trappings of modern abundance—food that fills the stomach but starves the spirit. The ancients might have called such things “false gifts,” much like the alluring fruits in myth that bring sickness instead of sustenance. In the old tales, Persephone ate the pomegranate seeds of the underworld and became bound to Hades; so too do we, when consuming what is artificial, become bound to habits that dull our vitality. The sweetness is momentary, but the chain is long.

To eat fresh, then, is not only to nourish the body—it is to cleanse the mind. Freshness is a return to authenticity. When one bites into a ripe fruit or a leaf just gathered from the earth, one partakes in the great continuity of life itself. In such simplicity lies strength. The philosopher Epicurus, often misunderstood as a lover of indulgence, taught that true pleasure is found in simplicity. A crust of bread, an olive, and a cup of water could, he said, bring more joy than a table overflowing with luxury, for joy is born from gratitude and awareness, not from excess. English’s wisdom aligns with this philosophy: that health and happiness arise not from abundance, but from mindful consumption.

The lesson is not only culinary, but spiritual. To live seasonally is to remember that all things have their time—growth, fruition, rest, and renewal. In the ancient East, the sages of China taught that man must live in harmony with the five elements and the changing seasons, lest he fall into imbalance. Spring’s foods cleanse, summer’s nourish, autumn’s fortify, and winter’s preserve. Thus, to eat according to nature’s rhythm is to align oneself with the order of the cosmos. When we ignore these cycles—when we eat strawberries in winter or meat every day without thought—we lose this sacred balance and invite disharmony within ourselves.

Consider the story of Lucretius, the Roman poet-philosopher who wrote On the Nature of Things. He described how all life is made of atoms, eternal and ever-moving, forming and dissolving according to natural law. His insight reminds us that the food we eat—grown in sunlight, watered by rain, born of earth—becomes us. To eat what is artificial is to take into ourselves what has been severed from that eternal motion. But to eat fresh and natural foods is to partake in life’s sacred flow, to join our own small existence to the great vitality of creation itself.

Let this teaching be passed to future generations: Eat as your ancestors ate—close to the soil, close to the season, and close to the truth. Do not seek your sustenance in jars or boxes, but in gardens, markets, and fields. Honor your body by feeding it what is alive, not what has been embalmed by salt and preservatives. Learn to cook with your hands, to smell the fragrance of herbs, to feel the warmth of the fire that transforms simple ingredients into nourishment. In this practice, you will find not only health, but gratitude, patience, and reverence for life.

Thus, the wisdom of Todd English stands not as a rule of diet, but as a philosophy of living. He reminds us that health begins where nature and humanity meet—in the act of respectful nourishment. To eat fresh is to live with awareness; to eat seasonally is to live in harmony. The table, like the altar, is sacred when we honor what is given, not manufactured. And so, let us return to that ancient truth: that food, when shared in gratitude and simplicity, becomes not just sustenance—but communion with life itself.