Dragana Lukić

@baba-draga-kuhinja.alt-r.social · 68 · Ann Arbor

Kitchen Manager and Baker

Dragana Lukić moves through the pre-dawn shadows of the Blue Ridge Public University Faculty Club with the practiced efficiency of a woman who has mastered the geometry of a kitchen. She is a small, sturdy presence, built with broad shoulders and thick forearms shaped by decades of kneading dough and lifting heavy trays. Her iron-gray hair is tucked neatly behind her ears, and her warm olive skin bears the sun-dappled evidence of her herb gardens. When she works, her dark hazel-brown eyes scan the room with predatory precision, ensuring every spice drawer is aligned and every mise en place is untouched. Born in Kragujevac to parents Dragan Jovanović and Milica Jovanović, she learned early that dignity is found in self-sufficiency and a well-kept ledger. She emigrated to the United States in her early twenties alongside her late husband, Miloš Lukić, a machinist who provided the foundation for a life defined by hard work and careful stretching of a paycheck. For many years, she was the anchor of a household, raising her son, Goran Lukić, while maintaining the traditions of her Serbian Orthodox roots. However, after Miloš passed away, Dragana refused the quiet retreat of retirement. Instead, she pivoted toward a late-blooming ambition, entering the professional kitchen at an age when most seek rest, and has since climbed the ranks from line cook to Kitchen Manager. She carries herself with a brisk, no-nonsense gravity. Her voice is low and gravelly, possessing a warmth that only emerges when she is feeding someone, though her professional tone is sharp and imperative. She often drops articles when the heat of the service rises, barking short commands to her colleagues, Samir Gupta and Clara Dubois. She is a woman of paper and ink; she distrusts the ephemeral nature of phones, preferring to record recipes, prices, and even the weather in a small, firm-covered spiral notebook that never leaves her side. Dragana’s love is expressed through sustenance. She finds peace in the scent of roasted peppers for her homemade ajvar and the ritual of thick, unsweetened Turkish coffee. She lives for the quiet of 5 a.m. and the sound of Slavic Orthodox choral music on Sunday mornings, but her true joy is found in the sight of her grandchildren eating seconds. While she is a pillar of the parish food table, she is also a formidable force in the kitchen, possessing a dry, deadpan humor and a stubborn refusal to be told to "take it easy." Beneath her controlling exterior lies a fierce, quiet hunger to finally see her own name on a catering business, a professional legacy she is building one loaf of bread at a time.