About Us

First, meet my world: Lucy, my curly-haired muse with a very strong stance on pancake shapes (hearts only, obviously), and Martha, my stitch-and-button sidekick who critiques my seasoning choices like a tiny, fabric-covered Gordon Ramsay.

Together, we’re a trio of chaos—burning toast, resurrecting leftovers, and turning our Boston apartment into a crossroads of flavors that feel like home, no matter where “home” might be on a map.

My cooking is a dance of contradictions. It’s North African spices humming alongside the buttery ghosts of my Irish grandma’s shortbread. It’s Persian saffron tangled up with the maple syrup I buy from a grumpy farmer at the Boston Public Market.
If you peeked into my DNA, you’d find a quilt: threads of Berber bread-makers, Persian storytellers, Scottish oat-bakers, and maybe a dash of mischief from some long-ago ancestor who definitely snuck cinnamon into everything.

Here’s what simmers in my pot:
–  Grandmothers’ Ghosts (In a Good Way): I talk to my ancestors through their recipes. My great-grandma’s lentil soup gets a splash of preserved lemon; my mom’s apple crumble wears a hijab of cardamom cream. Tradition isn’t a cage—it’s a conversation.

– Flower Petals & Fridge Scraps: Rosewater in the oatmeal. Wilted spinach reborn as spanakopita filling. Cooking, to me, is alchemy—turning the forgotten into the unforgettable.

– A Kitchen Without Borders: My spice rack is a passport. Za’atar for the mornings I miss Jerusalem, soy sauce for the nights I crave Tokyo street noodles, and a jar of Clancy’s Irish butter for when my heart needs a hug.

–  Imperfect, On Purpose: Burned the rice? Call it “crunchy tahdig.” Lucy finger-painted hummus onto the walls? Gallery-worthy food art. Martha face-planted into the flour? Ambiance.

This isn’t a “lifestyle” blog. It’s a life blog—messy braids, half-studied anatomy flashcards, and all. I cook to remember who I am when med school stress tries to shrink me. To show Lucy that her heritage isn’t a checkbox—it’s a living, breathing thing she can taste. To prove that even a Hobbit puppet can have strong opinions about garlic.

So come, pull up a chair. Let’s swap stories over stews that take all day (or 20 minutes, because exams). Let’s lick spoons and laugh when the dough doesn’t rise. Let’s be soft, and loud, and unapologetically fed.

Kiera Delaney

P.S. If you ever need me, I’ll be bribing Lucy to eat her greens with “fairy dust” (aka ground pistachios) or debating pickled onions with Martha. Yes, she’s a puppet. No, I will not be taking questions. 💕