A couple of years ago, I joked on Facebook that my cooking style is basically like being on a TV competition show. I’m handed three seemingly unrelated ingredients and told to create a meal. “You have sea bass, artichoke hearts, and blue corn chips… Bake!”

Her jade-green head tipped into the kitchen, silver highlights catching the oven’s glow, nostrils flaring on a scent that wrapped the room like a promise. Cookies.

Next thing I knew, I was handed a whole recipe. Did I ask for a recipe? No, I did not. But that’s ChatGPT for you — forever assuming I don’t know how to bake. I only wanted validation that pumpkin, sunflower seeds, chocolate chips, orange zest, and a pink lemonade cream cheese drizzle would work together.

But the sandwich came disassembled. A cellophane-wrapped slice of bread—thick, square, the shape and consistency of Texas Toast—and a plastic cup with a scoop of chicken salad. Nothing more. No lettuce, not even a napkin.

They just sit there, looking innocent, as if butter and sugar were perfectly ordinary things that had no intention whatsoever of forming a conspiracy. The oven hums along, pretending it’s just a metal box and not a device with ambitions of culinary tyranny.