In August, my husband and I rented a cottage in the woods near a beach for a week, a place where our toddler could barrel around and where we would cook most of our meals. The road up to the house was full of magic, as was the house itself, which dated to the 1700s. We roamed through it like the tourists we were, awed by the charm in its bones.

The kitchen appeared to have been renovated recently, with new appliances and an empty refrigerator that gleamed. This I liked. The pantry was nearly empty, too: just some sugar, salt, pepper, vanilla and a sticky bottle of olive oil of indeterminate age. I had brought a few staples with us, so this wouldn’t be a big issue.

And then I opened the drawers.

There I found a smallish wooden spoon, a tiny rolling pin, an ice cream scoop and a can opener that was clearly hanging in to pop open that one last can. There was only one knife, a serrated number that may also have dated to the 1700s. The cabinets held a few pots and a skillet.

I knew before I arrived that I wouldn’t be cooking anything elaborate: I wanted to be stationed on a beach chair, not toiling in the kitchen. But the empty pantry, coupled with that sad drawer of equipment and the lack of kitchen lighting I discovered upon nightfall (it really was the 1700s), pushed me to an even simpler place in my cooking than I normally go — and that is already a pretty simple spot, since I write a newsletter for The Times called Five Weeknight Dishes that is devoted to fast, easy cooking, and mirrors the kind of meals I actually make.