GoKawiilOne of my favorite recipes for challah does not tell you how much flour to use.
To a modern amateur baker, this omission borders on heresy. In an era where we measure yeast to the gram, a recipe that merely offers a rough estimate and casually instructs you to “add flour until the dough feels tacky” sounds daunting. But it is an honest reflection of how the bread is personally made: adding flour, half-a-cup at a time, until the dough hits that specific, tacky resistance. Surprisingly, the total volume can vary quite significantly. Depending on the ambient humidity or the specific ash content of the grain, the total volume of flour I need can swing by as much as a full cup. Yet the resulting loaf is always nearly identical: a crunchy crust yielding to a practically weightless, fluffy interior.
When I wrote the recipe down for my website, I was deeply tempted to type out an exact quantity of flour to the gram (it’s not a real recipe if it’s inexact! my inner monologue reasoned). But that simply would not be a true representation of my bread. Instead, leaving the measurement open acknowledges something that decades of food media and cooking culture has inadvertently engineered out of us: the kitchen is a biological environment. Cooking is a deeply personal experience, and culinary precision is no replacement for intuition.
If you spend enough time in the bread-baking corners of the internet, you will inevitably encounter the baking spreadsheet. They arrive as dizzying, hyper-optimized grids dictating exact inoculation rates, ambient room temperatures, and precise bulk-fermentation windows mapped out to the minute. At first glance, they appear bewilderingly rigorous—applying the kind of telemetry one might reserve for a low-earth orbit satellite—but under the hood, they are simply dressing up centuries of culinary intuition, building on mathematical frameworks like the baker’s percentage.
It is easy to see how we arrived at the spreadsheet if you look at the evolution of the recipe itself. For most of history, recipes were incredibly short and concise. Handed down orally, they assumed a wealth of existing cookery expertise. They offered lists of ingredients with no exact amounts, vague timings and temperatures, and steps so terse you can only assume the intended reader was already deep in the cooking trade. We can see great examples of this in historical texts—from the ancient Roman On the Subject of Cooking to the medieval English The Forme of Cury.
My grandmother’s recipe index card for corned beef.
Several changes began to appear in the 19th century, bringing the recipe closer to its modern incarnation. Eliza Acton’s Modern Cookery was the first cookbook to look recognizable to our modern eyes, introducing ingredient amounts and cooking times (albeit, listed after the steps). This was a strangely innovative addition, one noticed by reviewers of the time who praised the “foundational chemical principles” and “the intelligibility of the instructions.” This march continued until the dawn of the twentieth century, when pioneers like Fannie Farmer of the Boston Cooking School revolutionized domestic life. Farmer championed standardized volumetric measurements, arguing that cooking should be treated as a precise science rather than a guessing game.
What caused this sudden shift? It was likely driven by a collision of cultural forces. Recipes were increasingly being written for amateurs rather than professionals, meaning authors could no longer rely on the institutional knowledge of the reader. Concurrently, the industrial revolution and the rising prestige of the scientific method placed a new premium on empirical precision. Throw in growing government oversight of the food industry, and a burgeoning home-economics movement that prized predictability — aiming to elevate women from the “private sphere” into the “public sphere” by reinterpreting cooking as a legitimate science — and the stage was set for a culinary revolution.
Over the decades, recipes became increasingly detailed. This march toward absolute culinary certainty reached its zenith in the last twenty years, when the kitchen was fundamentally reimagined as a laboratory. You can chart this intellectual shift back to Harold McGee’s seminal On Food and Cooking, but the movement truly accelerated in the 2010s. Nathan Myhrvold released Modernist Cuisine, a 2,400-page encyclopedia that used centrifuges and homogenizers to decode the physics of food. Tools like immersion circulators and sous-vide machines became commonplace, allowing cooks to hold food at precise temperatures for hours in water baths. Sites like The Perfect Loaf applied an analytical, highly systematized approach to the deeply temperamental art of sourdough.
By mapping out the exact thermal dynamics of a steak or the hydration mechanics of a dough, this era made the previously ineffable magic of the kitchen substantially more reproducible. It demystified the magic, provided scientific frameworks, and most of all, made cooking accessible — and for that, we should be genuinely grateful.
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