Hi, I'm Stephan.

I'm a recently-diagnosed AuDHD adult, and I built Spare Spoons Kitchen — first for myself, then for anyone whose brain works like mine. Most recipes are written for someone else: “Cook until done.” “Season to taste.” “A medium onion.” On a good day that's just vague; on a low-spoons day it's a wall.

Take “a medium onion.” Before I can even pick up the knife, I'm online looking up how many grams a medium onion is — and then a second source, because who decided what “medium” means? One cook's medium is another's small; who's right? A neurotypical cook can shrug — “meh, an onion, who cares” — and I genuinely can't work that way. But tell me 35 grams of chopped onion and I'm off to a running start, cooking with confidence. That's the whole site in one ingredient: a number you can trust, so the cooking can actually begin.

So I made the site I needed. Exact gram weights. Plain doneness cues you can actually see or measure. Shortcuts that make the choice for you instead of sending you off to research it. Built-in timers on every step, because the ADHD half of my brain loses track of time and will cheerfully forget to check the pot — or start the next thing — unless something nudges it at the right moment. The recipe comes first — no childhood essay, no endless scrolling, no ads — and you navigate by how you're feeling today, not by category.

Here's the thing, though: I'm not a chef, but I am a good, experienced cook. These recipes are a lifetime of cooking and eating — I make every one of them — and I love good food. Being neurodivergent just cuts both ways. Some days there are no neurons to spare and dinner has to be a mug in the microwave; other days I've got energy to burn and I want to cook something showy, something to impress. So this place holds both ends: a hot meal in minutes when the tank is empty, and — when you're feeling ambitious — The Showroom, full of showstoppers worth the effort.

The name carries a small double meaning. There's spoon theory — the idea that some days you've only got so much energy to spend — and there are spare measuring spoons, the little tools of precision — I own a set with spoons labeled DROP (1/64 teaspoon) and SMIDGEN (1/32 teaspoon); that's honestly how my mind works. Both are the point: precise enough to trust, gentle enough for the days you're running on empty.

One room here, Aunt Betty's Comfort Kitchen, is named for Betty and Rev. Al Dykeman, who took me in during a hard stretch years ago and showed me what being taken care of feels like — Betty even collated a stack of her recipes for me to carry along when I left. There's more of that story on their page, but they're the reason “comfort” is built into this place at all.

This is the kitchen I actually cook in — on the good days and the empty ones. If a vague recipe has ever made you feel like you're the problem: you're not. Pull up a chair and have a seat at the table.