I’ve cooked professionally for most of my life, but this isn’t really about restaurants.

It’s about home.

It’s about getting to the end of a long day.
Opening the fridge.
Trying to figure out what to make with what you have.

If you’re tired.
If the kids are hungry.
If you want something good, but not complicated.

That moment should feel grounding.
Lately, it hasn’t.

It’s become noisy.

Recipes shout.
Apps push.
Everything seems designed to pull you away from the act of cooking itself.

More scrolling.
More comparing.
More decisions.
Very little calm.

I kept looking for something simple and steady.
A tool that felt respectful.
Something that didn’t assume I needed to be fixed or optimized, something that understood cooking isn’t a problem to solve, but a rhythm you fall back into.

I couldn’t find it.

So I stopped looking and started writing things down for myself.

What surprised me was how little I actually needed.

Most nights, I don’t want inspiration.
I want reassurance.
A quiet reminder of what works.
What’s in season.
What I already know, but sometimes forget when I’m tired.

As a single dad, I cook at home whenever I can.
Not because every meal needs to be special, but because being there matters.

Those meals are rarely perfect.
They’re practical.
Familiar.
Repetitive, in a good way.

None of the tools I tried felt built for that reality.

They all wanted something from me.
My attention.
My data.
My behavior.

They felt like products doing their job, not companions helping me do mine.

That’s where this idea started.

Not as a startup.
Not as a platform.
Just as a personal refusal to accept that everyday cooking had to feel this fragmented.

If I ever build this into something real, I’m clear about what it won’t be.

I’m not interested in gamifying food.
I don’t want streaks, badges, or points.
I don’t want an app that congratulates me for cooking dinner.

I don’t want to optimize cooking until it stops feeling human.
And I don’t believe more data automatically leads to better judgment.

What I want is something quieter.

Something that helps you decide what to cook without making you feel managed.
Something that understands seasonality.
Leftovers.
Mood.
And the fact that not every meal needs to be memorable.

I think of it less as a recipe engine and more as a steady presence.
The kind you trust because it doesn’t try too hard.
The kind that respects your experience, whether you’ve cooked for decades or you’re just trying to get dinner on the table.

If this ever works, success won’t look like growth first.
It will look like fewer decisions at dinnertime.
More confidence opening the fridge.
Less second-guessing.
More meals that feel obvious once you make them.

I don’t know yet how big this should be.
I’m intentionally not answering that question.

I only know that the absence of a calm, respectful cooking companion feels strange.
Like something obvious is missing.

And when something obvious is missing for long enough, it’s usually because the incentives to build it are wrong.

So for now, I’m protecting the idea.
Keeping it small.
Making sure it would be something I’d actually want to use in my own kitchen.
On a regular night.
With real constraints.

That feels like the right place to start.

Michael