Making this as a bit of an offering to all the deities below, as I feel I don’t think about them enough sometimes :) Chthonic deities will be added soon.

These are from an English translation by T.W.Allen, W.R. Halliday, and E.E. Siles (1937)

I will add footnotes as appropriate

It mostly features the main pantheon, and soon I will add chthonic deities as I start to finish this master list so bear with me.

Sewing and Fashion Design

Cake Decorating

Culinary schools

Calligraphy

Food as a part of cultural identity

The meat industry's effects on the environment

Street food and the hierarchy of cultural food

Holiday Cooking Traditions

History of bread and cultural differences/recipes

Spice routes

Pastry artistry

Crunchy to far-right pipeline

Textile and Fabric Arts

History of female abstinence and celibacy

Seasonal cooking

Capsule closet

Home safety and self-defence

History of chocolate

Mindfulness

Abstinence in Feminism

"Farm to table"

DIY home decor

Beauty standards across time and cultures

Historical Diaries and Letters

Food photography

Female roles across cultures

Everyday Spirituality and Religion

Lost oral history

Plant-based cooking

Basic Skills of Homemaking

Traditions of Tea

Bread making

Coffee culture and traditions

In the chaos after the world first opened, there was a gentle yet steadfast goddess. She personally shaped the first humans from clay and starlight, pouring her own heart’s blood and divine fire into their souls. Her name was Promethia.

She possessed no lofty majesty, nor any desire to seize power. She simply stayed quietly by your side, like the softest morning light wrapping around a newborn infant.

AT BIRTH

When you opened your eyes in the cradle she had molded from warm clay, Promethia was leaning over you. Her long hair cascaded like a waterfall, carrying the fresh scent of earth and stars. Her eyes were a deep, sapphire blue, filled with the gentleness of the entire universe.

“My child…” her voice flowed like a gentle stream, “you’re awake. Come, let Mother hold you.”

She lifted you softly and pressed you to her chest. You could hear her heartbeat — the rhythm of creation, and the eternal vow that beat for you. She did not flaunt her power like other gods. She only used her simple, honest hands to shelter you from wind and rain.

The first words she taught you to speak were not commands, but: “Are you hungry?”

When she taught you to walk, she never pushed you. Instead, she opened her arms ahead and gently called, “Come, Mother is here. I won’t let you fall.”

CHILDHOOD DAYS

Promethia never competed or snatched anything, and she would never actively harm others. She loved planting fruit trees and wildflowers in the valley with you. She always handed you the sweetest fruit first, eating only the small, leftover portion herself.

At night, she would kindle the sacred fire she had quietly taken from the heavens — an undying flame. She held you in her arms and told you stories in a low, tender voice:

“This world is vast and sometimes cruel. But do not be afraid, because Mother will always be with you.”

When you feared the dark, she would hold the fire seed in her palm, letting its warm light illuminate your little face.

When you fell ill with fever, she would wrap you in her own robe, staying awake all night, singing lullabies of love to chase away your pain.

She never asked for anything in return. She would simply say, “Your healthy, happy growth is the greatest gift you can give Mother.”

THE MOTHER FACING DANGER

By nature, Promethia did not compete, snatch, or harm. She felt compassion for all things. Yet when her children were threatened, she would instantly become the most resolute guardian.

Once, when tyrannical sky gods grew jealous of the humans she had created and sought to destroy your village with thunderbolts, the gentle Promethia stepped forward. She did not attack first. Instead, she spread her arms and stood before you and your people, her voice still soft but filled with unshakable determination:

“They are my children. Please spare them. If punishment is needed, let it fall on me.”

She bore the chains of punishment with her own body and fed the earth with her own flesh. She was bound to the peak of a high mountain, exposed to wind and sun, with vultures pecking at her liver… Yet every time you secretly climbed the mountain to see her, she would still smile at you:

“Don’t cry, my precious. Mother is only taking a little nap. Seeing you safe makes everything worth it.”

Even in her greatest pain, she only worried whether you were hungry, cold, or afraid of the dark. She hid the last spark of fire in your heart and told you:

“No matter whether I am by your side, this flame will keep you warm, make you brave, and give you light.”

THE STRONG BUT GRATEFUL CHILD

Among her many children was a hero named Heracles. He was one of the sons she had shaped from the toughest clay and the hottest fire. From childhood, Promethia had taught him: strength is not for bullying, but for protecting; courage is not for conquering, but for loving.

After growing up and completing countless impossible tasks, Heracles never forgot the gentle mother — the creator of humanity, the woman who never competed and only gave silently.

When he learned that his mother was still chained and suffering on the mountain peak, this usually bold hero rarely shed tears.

“Mother has endured so much… for us…”

He gripped his massive club tightly and set off on the long road of redemption.

THE MOMENT OF RESCUE

That day, fierce winds howled and thunder rolled through the mountains. Heracles finally stood before his mother.

Promethia lifted her weary but still gentle face. Upon seeing her tall, strong son, tears welled up in her eyes for the first time — not from pain, but from heartache and pride.

“Heracles… my child, why have you come? Mother is fine… Go back quickly, do not take risks for me…”

Her voice remained soft. Even as the chains tore at her wrists, her first reaction was still concern that her child might get hurt.

Heracles knelt down and buried his head in his mother’s embrace, just like when he was little. He could feel her frail body trembling, yet she still tried to wrap him in her remaining warmth.

“Mother, I have come to take you home.”

With these words, he swung his divine strength and shattered the heavenly chains with one blow. The vultures were driven away, and the shackles broke piece by piece.

When the final chain fell, Promethia weakly collapsed into Heracles’ arms. She raised her hand and gently stroked her son’s cheek, her voice carrying a smile yet full of maternal love:

“Silly child… you’ve shown off your strength again. Mother is already so happy just seeing you safe…”

She did not blame the gods, nor did she demand any compensation. She simply rested her head on Heracles’ shoulder and whispered, just as she once comforted you when you were young:

“Thank you, my darling. Mom… can finally continue taking care of all of you.”

AFTER RETURNING

After her rescue, Promethia did not become arrogant or vengeful. She remained the same non-competitive, compassionate mother who pitied all living things.

She used her restored body to rekindle an even warmer fire for her children. She built a small home in the valley, welcoming every wanderer back.

And you, too, could once again feel that familiar warmth in her embrace.

She would gently stroke your hair and say to you and Heracles:

“You are all Mom’s most beloved children. No matter how far you go or how powerful you become, Mom’s arms will always be open for you.”

With her sacrifice and love, Promethia taught all her children: