How I lost an astonishing 7lb in 14 days and slimmed my waist… on the Cabbage Soup diet. It’s the forgotten doctors’ trick from the 1950s and I’m proof it works, says HELEN CARROLL. This is exactly what I did – and the essential recipe

Tucking into a steaming bowl of risotto, piled high with shaved parmesan and washed down with a bottle of beer, on the last night of our family holiday in Prague this summer, I didn’t give a thought to the calories.

In fact, I’d had the same cavalier attitude throughout our week-long trip in August, polishing off chicken schnitzel, chips and ice cream-filled cakes with the abandon of a teenage boy.

It’s not that I didn’t care about the growing girth that meant I had to lie on the bed to zip up my jeans – it’s just that I knew I had the perfect solution for getting rid of it back at home.

You’d be forgiven for thinking I’m about to join the jabbers and resort to Mounjaro and Ozempic to blast away the post-holiday pounds.

But far from ‘cheating’ by using drugs to get rid of my spare tyre, my solution is much more old school and significantly more challenging – the dreaded Cabbage Soup Diet.

It’s not known who originally devised the plan, but it apparently dates back to the 1950s, when it was used in US hospitals to help obese patients prepare for surgery. Despite the terrible pungency of the soup itself – not to mention its wind-inducing properties – the diet made a huge resurgence in the late 1980s and 1990s as the go-to weight-loss method. The rather astonishing claim was that you could lose 10lb in a single week – and I was among its keenest devotees.

In my 20s, whenever I ‘needed’ to lose half a stone, I’d reach for my dedicated cabbage soup saucepan, boil up the broth and quickly slim down from 8st 7lb to 8st.

Now aged 57, I’ll never see that weight again. Over the summer, it wasn’t just Prague – I also overdid it on cheese, croissants and Cremant on a trip to Nice, too, so by September I’d put on 5lbs and weighed 9st 5lb.

Over the summer, it wasn’t just Prague – I also overdid it on cheese, croissants and Cremant on a trip to Nice, so by September I’d put on 5lbs and weighed 9st 5lb

Shedding 7lb is, of course, a darn sight easier in your 20s than when you’re menopausal

In my 20s, whenever I ‘needed’ to lose half a stone, I’d reach for my dedicated cabbage soup saucepan

At 5ft 2in my BMI is 24 – not enough to warrant a prescription for Mounjaro, but enough to make me feel uncomfortable in my size 10-12 clothes. I know I’d breathe easier if I was half-a-stone lighter.

Shedding 7lb is, of course, a darn sight easier in your 20s than when you’re menopausal, which is probably why weight-loss jabs are so popular among my generation. But personally, I believe a healthy bit of deprivation – a testing detox, if you like – does you good in itself.

And if ever there was a test of willpower, it’s the seven-day, low-carb, alcohol-free bootcamp that is the Cabbage Soup Diet.

According to specialist dietitian Priya Trew, from Dietitian UK, no matter how much cabbage soup I’m able to stomach – I’m allowed to eat as much I want, but surely there are limits to what the digestive system can handle? – unlike my fat-jabbing friends, there’s no avoiding the hunger pangs.

‘You’re bound to be very hungry because you’re missing out on major food groups and not giving your body everything it needs,’ says Priya. ‘Carbohydrates are our best energy source, and this diet pretty much cuts them out, so the body is forced to use its stores in the muscles and liver.

I imagine there must be some science behind it, but Priya insists not, claiming it’s only ‘secret’ is its low-calorie content and, she adds sternly, ‘no dietitian would recommend it’.

‘This is a diet lacking in a lot of nutrients,’ she says.

That means, it’s not recommended for longer than seven days, and does nothing to encourage long-term healthy eating habits.

My personal plan is to use it to retrain my brain and stomach to tune into natural feelings of hunger and satiation, something the GLP-1 jabs distort. That way, I hope to keep the weight-loss off when I start eating normally again. Friends on Mounjaro roll their eyes and tell me there’s no point suffering anymore.

But I like a challenge – or that’s what I tell myself – and I’m looking forward to proving I can survive on 1,000 calories a day. After all I did it three decades ago, how hard can it be now?

Day one

The last day of August: I pick a Sunday to begin my seven-day ordeal, believing it’ll be less grim than having to endure a whole weekend of deprivation. But from the moment I wake up, I crave my normal bacon and tomato sarnie…

Instead, I ladle out a bowl of the cabbage soup my husband Dillon prepared yesterday, and heat it up in the microwave. Its distinctive cruciferous smell instantly brings back memories – for both of us. It’s the smell of the London flats we rented during the 1990s, when I’d periodically subject myself to this diet, before we bought a house in the suburbs and had three children.

I start to panic, remembering what I’ve let myself in for.

Aside from plenty of cabbage soup, lots of fresh fruit will help to shed those unwanted pounds

Thankfully, Dillon has decided to join me on it, thinking he could do with dropping a few pounds, too. So we slurp our way through the first of several bowls of soup that day and, while we’d never choose such a thing for breakfast, remark, with some relief, on how tasty it is.

As fruit is the only other thing we’re allowed today, we’ve also stocked up on melon, mango, pineapple and a selection of delicious berries.

It feels cleansing. Virtuous. And also quick. Without a roast to prepare and eat as a family, there’s not a lot to occupy – or distract – us.

In fact, I’m in bed with my book – and a rumbling stomach – by 9pm.

Day two

My first thought on waking is how much I’m looking forward to the hot, buttered, baked potato we’re allowed this evening. Talk about ‘food noise’. Mine is turned up to high.

Today, the only other food on the menu is cabbage soup and vegetables – raw carrots and peppers, plus broccoli, runner beans and kale, all baked plain in the oven without any oil. While temporarily filling, these foods rapidly work their way through the system, so to speak, leaving me ravenous within the hour.

I usually run three times a week, and do a couple of strength-building workouts, but strenuous exercise isn’t advisable when you’re using all available energy just to get through the day. I sit at my desk for hours on end, acutely aware of how much time food preparation usually takes up.

By 6pm, I’m practically gnawing my fingers, so we go for an early dinner and cook the potatoes in the air fryer.

Greedily, I eye up Dillon’s helping – it seems a bit bigger – though in the end, it’s an effort to finish my own. I feel gloriously full for the rest of the evening, a bit spacey, in fact – am I in a carb coma? – and make the most of it by staying horizontal watching TV on the sofa.

Day three

Nothing but soup, vegetables and fruit today. A gloom settles over me.

Already my palate is tiring of the relentless cabbage. I eat bowl after bowl in the vain hope of stemming my cravings for fried egg on toast, and drink tea with a splash of skimmed milk, which is not strictly allowed. I can’t face the recommended black and worry about caffeine withdrawal headaches if I skip it.

Without my afternoon treat of Aldi almond milk chocolate and my evening indulgence of cheese-and-onion crisps, tea with milk is the only thing I’ve got to look forward to. In fact, while I’m chomping on a raw carrot, I realise how much joy these little ‘rewards’ for working hard bring, and that, without them, life is pretty miserable.

I keep working until bedtime in the hope it’ll distract me from the acidic burn in my stomach.

Day four

Joy of joys. Today I’m allowed up to eight bananas, plus ‘unlimited’ skimmed milk, which, I’ve decided, isn’t terribly different from fat-free yoghurt.

Looking forward to this delicious combination, and relieved not to be starting the day again with cabbage soup, I positively skip downstairs to breakfast. The most asked question, when I tell people we’re on the Cabbage Soup Diet, is obviously how windy it’s making us. But the strange thing is, it’s not. Or not much.

What I am noticing is how soundly I sleep, once my rumbling stomach lets me drift off. It feels like my body is somehow making up its missing energy quotient in sleep instead of food. I feel focused during the day, too, though I’ve a feeling that’s the survival response you get while fasting – a temporary wired feeling to help you find more food.

Day five

Today we’re allowed meat! Last night Dillon put a joint of beef brisket in the slow cooker and we wake to a smell which almost literally has me salivating.

He takes some to work and, unable to wait until lunchtime, I decide to have a chunk, drenched in gravy, for breakfast.

It is the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten – akin to the hot buttered toast you’re given in hospital after giving birth – and I cannot believe how filling even a tiny bit of it is.

It’s late afternoon, in fact, before I experience a single hunger pang and have the bowl of soup and a couple of the tomatoes that are part of today’s ‘prescription’.

I’m meant to be having dinner with friends, and I don’t want to miss catching up, so I go for the ‘pre-drinks’ – sticking to tap water – and after an hour leave them all to their delicious three-course meal. This is the saddest, cruellest part of my week.

Day six

We’re allowed more meat today, and opt for chicken breasts cooked in the air-fryer. I want a special ‘Sunday roast’ seasoning on mine, but Dillon says that’s cheating, as it has to be mixed with a tiny bit of oil.

He pays for his rigid adherence to the rules later, however, when he collapses on the sofa, so tired he can barely get up the stairs. He caves and wolfs a bowl of granola. I make do with a plate of dried-up vegetables, baked in the oven.

Please let this end.

Day seven

Although the finishing line is in sight, this is the worst day so far. Technically, I’m allowed ‘unlimited’ brown rice, but who wants unlimited brown rice?

It’s Saturday and I’d usually settle down with some chocolate and watch a film in the afternoon, but the time stretches blankly ahead of me. I decide to make use of it by clearing out my wardrobe, a job I’ve been putting off for two years.

The biggest test of the week, however, comes when my youngest, Christian, 17, asks me to help him make a Japanese chicken dish. The sauce, made from honey, garlic and soy sauce, is utterly delicious and, once its ready, I find myself absent-mindedly popping a piece of the coated chicken in my mouth.

Seeing me do it, Christian laughs and says: ‘Mum, I thought you weren’t allowed any!’

Shocked at my transgression, I’m about to spit it out when I think ‘ah sod it’ and swallow. The cabbage soup I force down afterwards feels especially ‘hair shirt’.

Day eight

The moment of truth as I step onto the weighing scales and discover I’ve lost… 5lb! I’m now down to a neat 9st – not quite the half stone I was hoping for, but I’m gratified to see most of the weight has gone from my waist.

Dillon, meanwhile, despite falling off the wagon on the final two days, has lost 8lb. Envious, and eager to achieve the 7lb I used to lose on the diet, I commit to another week of clean and healthy eating, avoiding alcohol and sugar and limiting carbs.

This seems especially sensible when an old friend reminds me that, immediately after doing the diet in my 20s, I’d eaten a Chinese takeaway and then vomited, my stomach having become over-sensitive to rich foods.

A week later

Being ‘careful’ about what I eat has meant missing out on a family takeaway curry to celebrate my daughter’s return from university, and making do with nuts and raisins whenever chocolate cravings strike.

However, it’s been a breeze compared to Cabbage Soup week. It may have taken a little extra time, but I’ve now lost a full half stone, and weigh 8st 12lb, with a BMI of 22.7 – around the middle of the healthy range.

It’s as much as my friends are losing on Mounjaro in a fortnight – and, in some cases, more – but it’s also been a harder slog than I remember.

Perhaps that’s the point of an extremely restricted ‘cure’ like this, to reset our appetites and make us think about every morsel instead of mindlessly wolfing down sugar and carbs. Smug, me? Well yes, just a bit.