People like to claim that food tastes better when it’s made with love—like how their grandmother’s pie didn’t taste right when they made it, so it must have been the love that made it good. This is bullshit, in my opinion. It was probably just extra butter or better-quality sugar that made it good. Dad’s cooking is proof of this. It is not made with love; it’s made with resentment and disappointment. And it still tastes fucking great.
