A quarterly on cooking, & the keeping of a kitchen. — Spring 2026.
— an opinion expressed in software
IAn app is, in the end, an opinion expressed in software. This is the opinion behind ours — and the small frustrations that built it.


Most home cooks already have a thousand-recipe library — scattered across screenshots, bookmarks, half-remembered links, and a recipe scrawled on the back of an envelope from 2019. The problem is not collecting more.

A reviewer's notebook on Paprika, Whisk, Mela, Crouton, Apple Notes, and Basil — and a tentative theory of why none of them quite feel finished.
Nine further dispatches, filed by our writers between Menton, Tokyo, and a kitchen in Vermont.
The quiet epistemology of a grease-stained recipe box — and why no algorithm will replicate the marginalia your grandmother left in the margin.

An afternoon, a smartphone, a shoebox of grease-stained cards. A small protocol for moving forty years of handwriting into something your daughter can still cook from in 2056.
Counting calories has been recast as either a moral obligation or a personal failing. There is, somewhere between MyFitnessPal and full surrender, a useful middle.

Most meal-planning advice was written for the 1950s. Here is what it looks like in 2026 — for a household of two adults, one fridge, and a Tuesday that already had a meeting at six.

The most asked question about Basil is how it compares to Paprika 3 — the long-running power-user favourite. Both work. They want to be different things.
Whisk became Samsung Food and pivoted toward something larger. That left a hole in the category — and a question about what a recipe app is, exactly, supposed to be.

Mela is one of the most beautifully designed apps on iOS. The question is whether you want an app to be beautiful, or to be the place dinner happens.
The most-used recipe app on iOS is the one that wasn't designed to be a recipe app. Apple Notes does the job — until the moment it doesn't.
The recipe lives somewhere — a website, a YouTube video, a friend's text, a screenshot of a screenshot. A short field manual for the modern import workflow.

Five working chefs, three kitchens, one persistent question: where does the recipe actually live? A reporter's notebook on the surprising, often improvised, software stacks of professional cooks.

A meal plan and a grocery list are not two documents. They are one document, viewed two ways. The friction between them is why most home cooks buy three onions when they needed one.

Every household has at least one allergen it cannot afford to forget. Most recipe apps have not yet noticed. The cost of forgetting, twice in a decade, is the entire argument for a different kind of software.

The single most consequential design decision in a recipe app is whether the phone screen stays awake while your hands are in dough. Most do not.
Folders ask you to know, in advance, where every recipe will go. Tags admit you do not. Recipe libraries built on the second model age better — and the difference compounds across a decade.

The wooden box on the kitchen shelf was, for forty years, how recipes moved between generations. The thread between a grandmother and her granddaughter is now, more often than not, an iMessage.

Most recipes are written for four. Most dinners are not. The math you do with a wet hand and a calculator is the small daily friction every home cook quietly accepts — and shouldn't.
The recipe app you trust is the one that survives a phone replacement, a kitchen-tablet failure, and a switched-iCloud-account at 7:42 on a Tuesday.

There is a folder on every cook's phone, untitled, full of recipe screenshots from Instagram and TikTok — perhaps eight hundred of them. None of them is searchable.

A recipe gets better the eleventh time you make it. Most recipe apps treat the recipe as a static file. The card on grandmother's shelf knew better.
Thirty-seven recipes in a Notes folder labeled simply 'recipes'. The folder works, until it doesn't. A practical primer on the Sunday afternoon when you decide to actually move them.
Four issues a year, posted from our kitchen to yours. A small essay on Sundays, and nothing we wouldn't read twice.
Now available
Try Basil, free on iOS— on the App Store.