this post was submitted on 11 Nov 2025
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Wait until they figure out they could ask chatgpt to intertwine the made up childhood story and the recipe, then we're all screwed:
The smell of freshly cut grass on my granny's farm; I can remember it like it was yesterday, when she asked me to bring 3 large eggs from the chicken coop. Preferably from Helen, she was the strongest layer of all her hens, the cakes always seemed to taste better when we used her eggs. Maybe it was because she was a free range hen who got at least 3000 steps per day...
... whilst her good friend, Lady Daisy, chewed grass thoughtfully in the field adjacent. I kissed her thrice upon the brow before acquiring 5.2 ounces of milk from her bodacious underside. She looked at me then and frowned, legs akimbo, betwixt with a nascent expression of puzzlement suitable only to mothers and lovers...
Please god no 😭