WHISK ME, DADDY

WHISK ME, DADDY 

BMC’s Recipes That Smack, Slap, and Set Your Soul Straight

BANANAGEDDON

        The Loaf That Laughs in the Face of Decay You looked at those bananas and saw garbage? Nah. That’s potential in disguise. Those black spots? Battle scars. That smell? Transformation. This loaf is forged from food most people toss—and that’s exactly the point. It’s not moist because it’s trendy. It’s moist because it endured. It’s bold. Dense with flavor. Scarred by heat, but better for it. This ain’t your grandma’s banana bread—unless your grandma did her healing, wielded a cast iron, and didn’t care what anyone thought. Add chocolate chips if you’re hopeful. Add walnuts if you’ve got something to work through. Either way, this loaf won’t just feed you—it’ll humble you.

And maybe that’s the point.

BMC’s SPICY BETRAYAL SALSA

        Sweet. Hot. Honest. Just Like Growth. Starts smooth—ripe tomato, roasted garlic, a whisper of sweetness. Then? WHAM. The jalapeño shows up with receipts. The habanero hits like truth you weren’t ready for. This salsa doesn’t play nice. It’s not comfort food—it’s clarity with a kick.

It’ll sweat the lies out of your pores and leave your ego doing damage control.

Perfect for:

Chips

Tacos

Burnt bridges

Letters you never sent

⚠️ WARNING:

        May unearth old memories, reframe old mistakes, and clear your sinuses.

Serve with humility—and maybe some milk.

Don’t Ask Mitch™ How Many He Ate Cookies

(a.k.a. the Suprize M&M Cookie™)

These cookies are a problems. A warm, chewy, emotionally-complicated, buttery little problem. They were born on a Suprize Weed™ night when all I wanted was a snack and somehow ended up inventing a lifestyle. They’re too big. They’re too good. And they’ve got that “accidentally ate six while overthinking your whole childhood” kind of energy.

BMC’S KITCHEN IS OPEN

        This Ain’t Pinterest. This Is Process. This isn’t some tidy apron, farmhouse sink fantasy. This kitchen is therapy through temperature. It’s chaos seasoned with survival. Every mess on the counter? A memory. Every burn mark? A badge. Every dish? A reckoning.

        Got something to say with food? Say it. A grief pie? A rage roast? A casserole that screams, “I’m still here”? I want it. I’ll roast it. Toast it. Name it. Claim it.

“Send me your loudest, messiest, most honest recipes. I’ll honor the chaos, bake the truth, and maybe yell at it mid-whisk.”

— BMC, crust under his nails, healing in his hands

    Drop your recipe in the comments. Shout it from the compost heap. Etch it on a trowel and hurl it over the fence. If it makes the cut? Welcome to the BMC canon. You’ve been mulched into culinary history.