— how it works
A shared menu, a recipe ready when you cook, and one tidy list at the door. Here's the shape of the week.
01
Open Sunday's empty week and ask the planner to fill it. We propose seven dinners shaped by what your household already eats — and anyone signed into the house can step in. Swap a meal you're not feeling. Edit a recipe to match what's already in the fridge. Drag a meal to a different day. Mark Friday as takeout. It's a single shared view, not seven group texts.
02
Tuesday at 6:42. The phone props on the spice rack. Cook mode opens the recipe full-screen — ingredients on one side, steps on the other, with prep and cook times where you can glance at them. Where the browser allows it, the screen stays awake so you don't have to smear olive oil trying to wake it up.
03
Every meal's ingredients flow into a single shopping list, grouped by aisle so produce stays with produce and pantry stays with pantry. Add manual items — coffee, toilet paper, a birthday card — and they ride along. Check things off as you walk the store; everyone in the household sees the same boxes ticking off.
— the pantry challenge, automated
You know the trick — cook through what's in the cupboard before the next grocery run. The hard part is remembering what's actually there. Add items by hand to digitize what's already home, or tick them off the shopping list and they slide in automatically. Finish cooking and we ask whether the lemons and broth you had on hand got used — one tap and they're gone. When Sunday's plan arrives, the cupboard is already part of the conversation: the menu leans toward what's home, gently, without overriding allergies, variety, or the time budget you asked for.
— a small thing we built
Editing Wednesday's risotto and out of parmesan? Tap the arrows next to any ingredient and we'll suggest five swaps that actually fit — drawn from a flavor model called Epicure, distilled from roughly four million recipes into a 1,790-ingredient map. Each ingredient lives at a point in 300 dimensions; closeness there turns out to be a surprisingly good proxy for “things that taste like one another.”