Scranly's job is simple to say and hard to do: the next few dinners are always planned, always shoppable, and always yours. Here's the whole loop.
Message Scranly on WhatsApp. That's the entire signup — no app, no form, no password. It asks exactly one thing up front: anything you can't eat? Allergies and hard exclusions are stored once and enforced in software on every plan it ever makes.
Then it plans. Your first few dinners arrive within the minute, using sensible defaults — it would rather show you a real plan and be corrected than ask you ten questions.
Tell it how your house actually runs, in your own words: "quick ones Thursday and Friday", "fish at the weekend", "nothing heavy on gym nights". It plays back what it heard so you can correct it in one line.
Share your calendar (one link, read-only) and it knows which evenings you're out. It checks the weather too — lighter plates on the hot days, comfort on the grim ones.
Meals appear in your calendar by themselves and update when plans change. The shopping list is computed from the week's ingredients — aggregated, aisle-grouped, tickable from your phone in the supermarket. A daily nudge brings tonight's two-line method at 4pm, when you're deciding whether to shop.
Scranly messages first at most once a day, and only when there's something worth saying — a gap in your week, or the week's plan landing. Your calendar does the routine reminding.
"Not fish again" swaps tonight and tilts every future week. "Never mushrooms" is permanent — enforced in code, not left to an AI's mood. "Can't be arsed" shifts tonight's meal to tomorrow (the food's already in your fridge) and, if you fancy eating out, finds a local restaurant that fits your taste.
Even silence teaches it: meals you cooked without complaint count quietly in favour. The longer you use it, the less you have to say.