The Onion Takes as Long as It Takes
Every recipe that calls for caramelised onions says 10 minutes. Every recipe that calls for caramelised onions is lying. Real caramelisation — where the sugars break down and the onions turn amber and sweet and almost jammy — takes 45 minutes on medium-low heat with occasional stirring and a patience that no recipe seems willing to ask for.
The 10-minute version gives you softened onions that are technically cooked. They're fine. They'll disappear into whatever you're making and contribute a vague sweetness. The 45-minute version gives you something that can anchor an entire dish — a base note that makes people ask what's in this even when you haven't done anything else remarkable.
This is the argument for slow cooking in one example. Some chemical processes just take time. You cannot negotiate with them.
Slow Cooking as Attention
There's a second argument that has nothing to do with chemistry. Slow cooking requires presence. A braise that takes three hours needs to be checked, adjusted, tasted. You have to be in the kitchen, or near it. You have to pay attention to what's happening — what the liquid is doing, whether the temperature is right, what the smell is telling you.
This is the opposite of how most of us relate to cooking on weekdays. We want to do something quickly and move on. And that's fine — I cook fast food too. But there's something in the slow version that produces a different quality of attention. You can't multitask a braise. You have to be present with it.
I find this genuinely restful in a way that frantic, efficient cooking isn't. The kitchen is one of the few places where I can be completely absorbed in a physical task without feeling like I should be doing something more productive. Slow cooking extends that window.
What Slow Cooking Actually Means
I'm not talking about slow cookers, though those have their place. I mean cooking at lower temperatures for longer times — braises, confit, long sautés, stock that simmers for hours. The specific techniques vary but they share an underlying logic: time replaces intensity. A tough cut of meat cooked at high heat becomes dry and chewy. The same cut cooked slowly in liquid over two hours becomes tender enough to pull apart with a spoon. Nothing changed except time.
Turkish cooking understands this well. Many traditional dishes — etli güveç, kuru fasulye, kuzu tandır — involve long, slow cooking that would be ruined by impatience. The whole point is that the ingredients are given enough time to become something they couldn't be with less. You can't rush a güveç any more than you can rush fermentation.
The Stoic Connection
I keep finding the same pattern in things I care about. Photography teaches you to slow down and notice what's actually in front of you. Stoicism teaches you to focus on what's in your control and let go of what isn't. Slow cooking teaches you that some things take the time they take, and the attempt to shortcut them produces an inferior result.
This isn't a profound philosophical insight. It's just something I notice: the activities that require patience tend to produce things worth having. The ones that reward speed tend to produce things that are immediately satisfying and quickly forgotten.
The onion takes 45 minutes. Make the time.