We have imploded our nation’s infrastructure. We have devalued and denigrated our economy. We have burned our safety nets, trapping ourselves in a farce of entropy, with only the unpaid internships and “gig economy” to light the way on our descent into hell.
It was not enough. The Millennials yet live. They cast a gaze back into the abyss of our futile enterprises with listless eyes that yet pierce the soul of our once-great civilization. They refuse to buy napkins. Diamonds lose the precious cultural relevance we’ve spent centuries and lots of indigenous blood to cultivate. Who knows how much to be exact; we never bothered to teach the Millennials advanced math or a baseline understanding of the byproducts of colonialism in the modern era. We just told them about mitochondria and why the US was right to use the Atomic Bomb in WW2. They were supposed to work six jobs. We weren’t supposed to cancel our cruise. I curse our broken wisdom.
There is word that one Millennial doesn’t even buy butter anymore. She stalks the budget grocery stores in her neighborhood, buying irregular cut bacon in bulk and rendering the fat into mason jars as a culinary panacea. And as we take to the press with our pleas for them to stop doing things on social media that don’t cost money and invest in organic bison cheese, she simmers pork fat on a cast-iron to mix into chocolate muffins, having developed a zest the nectar of heart-death. She brings them to potlucks and buzzes with a gladsome and pestilent satisfaction at seeing the coos and cackles of those who eat her death pastry.
We have, I feared, too far from God’s light. At seeing what we have wrought, He will never invite us to partake in His time share opportunity.
I hear she first starts by putting all the dry ingredients in a bowl, and rapidly whisking it together until blended.
Then she adds the eggs. She doesn’t mix them yet; supposedly, muffins are best when the batter is a little “gloppy” and “evenly mixed but not too evenly mixed, as it can give you a flat, lifeless end dough when baked”. In their biomes of despair, they have come to speak an indecipherable language of subtext and analogy, that seeks to convey truth through nuanced, empathetic understandings of communication rather than literal, analytical applications of language. “Crumbly”.
You then add your milk and peanut butter chips.
Look at those two egg yolks. Like eyes, surrendering. Unable to lift the rest of it up out of the life chosen for it. Defeated, but unflinching in its eye contact at the ensuing tragedy to befall it. Comforted in its final moments with the knowledge that it’s accusatory gaze may be remembered and conjure the occasional cold sweat in its conqueror.
As the Millennials would say, “same”.
How could we have guessed, after generations of telling young women that their sexual, romantic, and societal value was contingent on starving themselves, that one would derive pleasure, and even power, from a jar of pure fat?
The progenitors of this fable said that those who first bore witness to this depraved ritual of invention—known among the Millennials as “lifehacking”—had hope that the grit laden in the fat, the charred bits of meals past that accumulate on a cast-iron that isn’t regularly scrubbed, would complicate and ultimately halt her mission.
Surely, not even the most entrenched and embittered would put all that in food they intend to serve to roommates and neighbors. We had, for sure, given them a raw deal, but they could not be so lost to the darkness. This summoning of strange tastes could not proceed.
We had not known that this cereal-deficient degenerate had, before experiencing years of stilted, unsteady employment, had a brief period of job security back when tech support was a full-time job that paid competitive wages, and had developed a taste for loose-leaf tea and lemon curd. She knew our ways. And she poured her bacon fat through the tea strainer, ensuring that all of the grit remained out of the batter.
It is said the heretic then began to mix everything as fat as possible, as the grease was still warm enough to begin setting the eggs before they were blended.
And then, as her dalliance with the dark side of economic disparity needed further familiarity, she used the bacon fat to grease the muffin tin. The sick fuck. Our whole social order is doomed.
You must tell my grandchildren that I loved them, even though we didn’t really do anything to ensure their survival. They must understand that’s just not how our generation expressed love. We were the product of a lot of post-war fucking.
As our foundations give out beneath us on this forced march into the entropy of our very very bad decisions, I choose to take heart that because this woman is too poor to own an electric mixer, she has some little pockets of sugar and flour in the finished dough.
If she’d gone on a cruise, the kitchen staff might’ve been able to mix her dough for her. God is great. Buy cereal.
This recipe made 6 larger muffins. 6 is 1/111 of the number of the Beast, and 1 is the loneliest number that you’ll ever do. Are we not awakened and born anew in our intimate understanding of this desolation?
It is said that the flavor is smokey, salty, and dirty, robust but also murky in its moist confluence of chocolate, peanut butter, and grease. The muffins, when cut, have insides that resemble pound cake. The peanut butter chips accompany the saltiness of the bacon grease well—the chocolate flavor is faint but pointed, like a hearty, woody aftertaste.
They taste great with peanut butter spread on them. So I’ve heard. The Millennials raid our town squares and passionately argue how their lives are difficult and offer ways in which we could be more accommodating of their unique socio-economic context in a society that relies on their labor but excludes them from all legitimacy.
I have locked myself in a country club canteen, subsisting on arnold palmers and vacuum-sealed Hollandaise sauce. I will never repent. Let the Millennials eat their muffins and watch their cartoons that explore social justice in ways that are accessible to the youth.
I will go into that good night on my own terms. Malnourished, cynical, and afraid of reconciliation. Just as the Baby Boomer generation attended all to meet their makers.