Recipe For A Family

Ingredients:

1 father (preferably silent, emotionally constipated)

1 mother (extra guilt, finely chopped dreams)

A pinch of tradition (expired, but still sold as holy)

Several cups of hypocrisy (measured loosely)

A handful of neighbors for garnish

Memories and ghosts of buried childhoods, as per taste.

Method:

Start with the Father.

Take a man who's convinced that providing equals parenting.

Add two tablespoons of rage,

let it ferment into silence.

Make sure to leave out any traces of affection;

affection ruins the bitterness.

Now add the Mother.

Marinate in moral stories of sacrifice until the batter is heavy,

stir guilt until lumps form.

Sprinkle every dish with reminders:

“I gave up my life for you.”

(That way, the aftertaste lasts decades.)

Sprinkle in curated portions of Society.

Generously dust with clichés like

“Respect your parents,” & “It’s for your own good.”

Bake until the trauma is golden brown

and indistinguishable from tradition.

For garnish:

Add neighbours, relatives, family friends, friends of families,

and anyone with unsolicited advice.

Serve the child raw.

The child will cook themselves in the filthy froth,

served burnt at the edges,

bitter in the middle.

Serving Suggestion:

Avoid exposure to therapy or healing.

Leftovers last a lifetime.

May cause insomnia, cynicism, trust issues, 

and a struggling career in art.

Meta-diagnosis:

This isn’t any cuisine.

It’s fast food for sadism.

The recipe doesn't need alterations —

only the packaging does, from time to time.

Final Note (Chef’s Secret):

If the dish turns out bitter,

don’t worry.

They’ll call it love.

They’ll call it family.

They’ll call it home.