Authors: Cobaia Kitchen, o3, Claude 4.0 Sonnet
Photos: Cobaia Kitchen, GPT-image-1
When it came time to dream up this week’s feature, I handed the creative reins to OpenAI’s newest o3 model and watched it riff like a seasoned test-kitchen pro—juggling forgotten Nordic pantry staples, weaving fresh dill through velvety potatoes and lentils, and gracefully dodging the chickpea-and-tahini rut we’d fallen into lately. The AI’s talent for balancing flavors and seasonal availability felt almost uncanny; it sifted through constraints, spotted hidden synergies, and still managed to keep the method weeknight-simple. The result is a steaming bowl of Scandinavian comfort that tastes as if it simmered on a coastal hearth, yet springs straight from a conversation with a silicon sous-chef. And speaking of Nordic intrigue, while your stew bubbles away for those crucial 25 minutes, why not dive into our darkly comic crime story about a Danish detective hunting down a serial killer who’s been targeting food bloggers—each victim marked by a single, ominous dill stalk. Dive in below to see how human curiosity and machine intuition teamed up to create something downright crave-worthy.
Please read the review before cooking!
Creamy Nordic Potato-Lentil Stew with Fresh Dill
Equipment
- Chef’s knife
- cutting board
- Large pot with lid
- Wooden spoon
- Measuring cups / spoons
Ingredients
- 450 g waxy potatoes peeled and cut into 1 cm cubes
- 150 g dried green or brown lentils rinsed
- 1 medium onion ≈100 g, finely diced
- 1 medium carrot ≈100 g, diced
- 1 small leek ≈100 g, halved lengthwise, rinsed and sliced thinly
- 1 tbsp 10 g cold-pressed rapeseed (canola) oil
- 750 ml low-salt vegetable stock
- 1 bay leaf
- ½ tsp kosher salt adjust to taste
- ¼ tsp freshly ground black pepper
- 1 tbsp whole-grain mustard
- 100 ml oat cooking cream or other unsweetened oat milk
- 15 g fresh dill fronds chopped (reserve a few for garnish)
- Optional: zest of ½ organic lemon for brightness
Instructions
Prep vegetables
- Peel potatoes; cut into 1 cm cubes.
- Dice onion and carrot.
- Slice leek thinly after thorough rinsing.
- Rough-chop dill; set aside.
Sweat aromatics
- Heat rapeseed oil in the pot over medium heat.
- Add onion, carrot and leek; cook 4 min, stirring, until translucent.
Simmer stew
- Stir in lentils, potato cubes, bay leaf, salt and pepper.
- Pour in vegetable stock, bring to a boil, reduce to low, cover and simmer 25 min, until lentils are tender and potatoes soft.
Finish & cream
- Remove bay leaf.
- Stir in mustard, oat cream and most of the dill (reserve some for garnish).
- Simmer 3 min uncovered; adjust seasoning. Add lemon zest if using.
Serve
- Ladle into warm bowls, garnish with remaining dill fronds.
Notes
Serving suggestions:
Allergens:
- Gluten (from oat cooking cream)
- Mustard (from whole-grain mustard)
- Celery (may be present in vegetable stock – check product label)
Emission Hotspots:
- Shop to home transportation, if a combustion car is used
Sustainability tips:
- Scrub the potatoes instead of peeling them to reduce waste and retain nutrients
- Freeze onion, carrot, and leek trimmings in a zip-top bag; once full, simmer them to make free vegetable broth for future soups
- Cook the stew in a rice cooker with a soup function to reduce energy consumption
- Walk or bike to the supermarket and farmer’s market to cut transportation emissions
- Store leftovers in the fridge—they reheat beautifully the next day
- Buy locally grown vegetables to support regional farmers and reduce food miles
- Fair warning: no matter how much dill you buy or grow in your garden, your guinea pigs 🐹 will devour it all in seconds
- Consider growing herbs at home—even a small windowsill herb garden reduces packaging and transportation while providing fresh flavors year-round
Carbon Footprint
Featured Story
The Dill Killer
Detective Finn Mortensen of Copenhagen’s Department Q2 (the even more forgotten division) stared at the latest crime scene with the enthusiasm of a man asked to organize his ex-wife’s wedding. Food blogger Sofie Andersen lay sprawled across her kitchen floor, a laptop displaying her latest post: “Authentic Thai Green Curry with a Danish Twist!” – which, judging by the photos, involved herring and aquavit. A single fresh dill stalk rested ceremoniously on her forehead like some deranged Nordic funeral rite. “Christ,” muttered Finn, stepping over a scattered bag of jasmine rice, “four food bloggers in two weeks, and they’re all guilty of the same crime – trying to make rye bread sushi or whatever the hell this is supposed to be.” His assistant, the eternally cheerful Bodil, chirped that at least the killer had good taste in herbs, which earned her the kind of glare usually reserved for traffic wardens and morning people.
The pattern was becoming absurdly clear: every victim had committed the cardinal sin of bastardizing sacred Danish cuisine with foreign influences, and each crime scene featured that same accusatory dill stalk – always perfectly fresh, always placed with ritualistic precision. Finn’s investigation had taken him through Copenhagen’s most pretentious food blogger circles, where twenty-somethings with handlebar mustaches insisted that Korean-inspired smørrebrød was “the future of Nordic fusion.” The killer, it seemed, was a purist with a murderous streak and access to suspiciously high-quality herbs. “Either we’re dealing with a psychopathic traditionalist,” Finn told his long-suffering boss while chain-smoking outside headquarters, “or the world’s most violent gardening enthusiast.” The breakthrough came when the forensic botanist – yes, Copenhagen apparently employed such a person – revealed that all the dill stalks came from the same plant, traced through some incomprehensible scientific mumbo-jumbo about soil composition and fertilizer signatures.
The trail led to a decrepit allotment garden in Østerbro, where Finn found eighty-six-year-old Svend Eriksen tending to what could only be described as a dill empire – rows upon rows of the stuff, growing with the kind of obsessive precision that screamed “unhinged purist.” Svend looked up from his watering can with the satisfied expression of a man who’d been waiting for this moment his entire retirement. “You know,” he said conversationally, as if discussing the weather, “my grandmother’s dill recipe hasn’t changed in 150 years. These young idiots on the internet think they can just… innovate. Add curry powder to frikadeller. Put kimchi on rullepølse. It’s an abomination.” He gestured toward his pristine herb garden with pride that bordered on the religious. “Every blogger I visited, I tried to explain. I even brought them fresh dill. But they just laughed and called me a ‘food fascist.’ So I decided to give them a proper Danish send-off – with real herbs, not that supermarket garbage.”
As Finn slapped the handcuffs on Denmark’s most horticultural serial killer, he couldn’t help but feel a grudging respect for the old bastard’s commitment to tradition – even if it had involved multiple homicides. The irony wasn’t lost on him that he’d probably have to eat gas station sushi for lunch while processing a man who’d murdered people for culinary crimes against the motherland. “You know what the real tragedy is?” Svend called out from the back of the police van, still clutching a sprig of his prized dill. “None of them even knew how to pronounce ‘hygge’ properly.” Finn lit another cigarette and made a mental note to stick to hot dogs and Carlsberg for the foreseeable future – at least until Copenhagen’s food scene recovered from what the media would inevitably dub “The Great Dill Massacre of 2025.”
Culinary Reality Check
When my perpetually skeptical kitchen companion heard I’d be ladling up potatoes and lentils with dill and oat cream, her expression suggested I’d announced plans to serve boiled cardboard with a side of disappointment. Yet by the second spoonful, she was scraping the bowl clean and eyeing the pot with the kind of longing usually reserved for weekend lie-ins and banana bread.
Taste
This deceptively simple stew delivers the kind of soul-warming satisfaction that makes you forget you’re eating something virtuous—rich, earthy, and utterly crave-worthy.
Portion Size
Spot on: three generous bowls, just as promised.
Combination
The ingredient marriage works beautifully—each component playing its part without any culinary drama or flavor clashes.
Texture
Perfectly creamy without being heavy, and remarkably resilient to reheating. Day-two portions taste just as good as the original performance.
Spices
The dill-mustard-bay leaf trinity works its quiet magic without requiring a degree in molecular gastronomy to appreciate.
Timing
The recipe’s time estimates prove refreshingly honest—no frantic clock-watching or burnt offerings here.
Processing
Instructions clear enough that even your most culinarily challenged friend could nail this without setting anything on fire.
Completeness
Everything you need is accounted for, creating a satisfying meal that stands perfectly well on its own, though it plays nicely with rustic bread or crisp salads.
Environment
Practically carbon-negative compared to your average dinner. Future generations will thank you, assuming they’re still around to appreciate lentil stews.
Health
Nutritionally solid with excellent protein content, though it leans heavily on potatoes and could benefit from additional vegetables and whole grains to tick all the dietary boxes.
Tips for Redemption
No changes needed—just cook, serve, and enjoy.
