The year was 1963. Winter. The nation was reeling from the Kennedy assassination. The threat of nuclear armageddon at the hands of the Russians hung heavy in the air. Nobody had even heard of Instagram stories yet, and my mother came home from school to find two heavenly loaves of banana bread cooling side by side on the kitchen counter. My grandmother was often cold, and drank heavily, but one thing she did better than anyone else was make banana bread. She baked it for special occasions, but she also baked it to make any occasion special. It was her way of saying “I love you” to her kids, to her husband. While she struggled to say the actual words, this banana bread became a physical manifestation of her love.
Fortunately for you dinks, I had the old bitch write out the recipe right before she croaked, and now I’m about to lovingly penetrate this shit into your minds.
Look at you, absolutely begging for it, saliva beginning to dribble onto your bland and unfashionable clothes. You think you deserve this recipe? “How can I use these overripe bananas?” you say to yourself, your swollen tongue bashing against your mish-mashed ogre teeth. One quick google search later and you think you think you’re ready to see the face of God?
Guess again you complete fucking oaf. Never in your depressing lives have you come close to the absolute nirvana that is my banana bread recipe. This recipe is going to change your whole goddamn life. It’s going to wow your tits off. It’s going to make you shit your dick out your asshole. You think you know shit about fuck? Get ready to have your world turned upside down.
And before you even ask, you disgusting little skid mark, yes, we’re going to be sifting our dry ingredients before combining, because we weren’t raised by fucking mole people. Of course, we’ll be adding eggs one at a time, beating after each addition, because this isn’t some kind of fucking game. Obviously, we’ll be greasing the pans before pouring the batter in, because if you don’t adequately prepare for the future you might as well kill yourself right now. And if you think we’re not adding a dash of cinnamon right up in there for a richer flavor, I will fully come to your home and murder you in front of your family.
Guess what the fuck else we have, you worthless sacks of garbage? Chocolate chips. That’s right, motherfuckers. Tiny little morsels of chocolate. Right. In. The. Banana bread. Those tiny assholes add another dimension of flavor as well as a wonderful textural component the likes of which your tiny minds can’t even comprehend.
To those of you who are thinking of commenting something like “Becca, what if we want to use walnuts instead of chocolate chips?” Let me say two things: First, keep my name out of your fucking mouth, you utter disappointment. Second, I swear to god if I ever find out you’ve sullied my bitch of a grandmother’s favorite recipe I will find out where you live, burn your house down, and frame you for insurance fraud.
Most importantly, have fun! If you bake the way my grandmother taught me, with love in your heart and a BAC of .11, anything you make will be incredible.
Finally: If you fuck this up my dead alcoholic grandma will haunt the shit out of you for the rest of your miserable fucking life.
Becca's Grandma's Banana Bread
— 1 box Banana Bread Mix (Betty Crocker preferred)
— 1 package semi-sweet chocolate chips
— 1 tbsp butter (to grease pans)
Follow instructions on box to create batter. Add chocolate chips. Grease two loaf pans, add batter, and bake in oven heated to 350 degrees for 20 minutes or until golden brown, or until you finish entire drink. Cool before slicing. Or don’t, I’m not the police.