Douglas Schorr

How I Learned Minimalism.

“Every house has bags of bags,” mumbled our visitor, searching for something to pack his shoes in. I had to laugh—we’re a “carnivore house,” and as they say in Malaysian English, “What for plastics?”

Let me show you what minimal really looks like. Our biggest waste item? A single cardboard box from our six-weekly meat collection—one meter square, tossed for recycling after we’ve packed away our frozen portions. Add six cartons from our 30-egg boxes monthly, a few recyclable dairy containers from our weekly yogurt and cream, and my carbonated water bottles. That’s basically it! Even our freezer bags get a second life as tiny daily-use garbage bags, though they’re rarely more than half full—what’s to throw away besides eggshells, bones, and the odd butter wrapper?

Shopping is a stealth mission! We zip through the supermarket like ninjas, bypassing the processed food maze, making a beeline for dairy and eggs. Compare prices—boom! Back in the sunshine before most people have finished reading their shopping lists. No more endless wandering through the Temple of Cravings!

Gone are those modern food prep rituals that feel like chemistry experiments: no more vegetable decontamination ceremonies, no fruit dewaxing sessions, no complicated storage Tetris. Unless it is a roast or stew in which case it is ready when we’re back, cooking becomes a 15-minute jazz solo—sizzle or grill, flip, serve! Sure, there’s more grease, but with so few dishes, who needs a dishwasher? Hot water does its magic, and you’re done before Netflix asks why you cancelled.

Here’s the plot twist: bathroom economics! (Stay with me; it gets interesting!) While America’s sewage systems are apparently losing enough escaped waste “for every American to take one bath each week for a year,” carnivores basically give the system a vacation. Less paper, less water, fewer cleaning products—we’re basically environmental superheroes in disguise!

The real jackpot? Medical bills disappear. These days, I see my doctor for friendly chats over lunch rather than consultations. My pharmacy visits are like brief cameos—just popping in for seasonal extras like eye drops and plasters for cuts and scrapes, not starring in a medication marathon. After years of supporting them—30 on high blood pressure meds—I now use none.

Sure, you can make carnivore eating expensive if you chase premium cuts like they’re limited edition collectibles. But here’s the secret sauce: those “cheaper” cuts got their reputation because modern cooks forgot the ancient arts of stews, soups, and braising. And eggs? They’re like the jazz musicians of the kitchen—always ready to fill that corner that doesn’t want to wait for the steak.

When you add it all up—from ninja shopping to minimal cleaning supplies, from vanishing medical bills to our nearly invisible waste footprint—the carnivore lifestyle has saved our household thousands of ringgit. But the real profit? It’s in the spring in our step, the clarity in our thoughts, and the happy dance our heart does.

As they say in business, when you find something that saves money while upgrading quality—that’s not just savings, that’s innovation. And waving goodbye to those “age-related” ailments? That’s what I call a mic-drop moment in the investment world!

It’s not just about being a carnivore—it’s about discovering that modern living doesn’t have to mean mountains of waste. Our monthly recyclables would barely fill one standard garbage bag—the same amount many households generate in a day. Now that’s what I call real minimalism!