The Best Cornbread Recipe Ever

David clutched his chest. He knew what was about to happen, but he was powerless to stop it.

“Not here. Please, not here,” David thought. His eyes started to dart around the bustling room; desperately looking for an escape. Some safe, quiet space where he could wait this out.

Dropping his head low, David pushed his way through the crowded club. He could hear Annie, who just returned with some drinks, asking where he was going. “No time,” David muttered to himself.

He spots an empty VIP booth completely ungaurded by the lurking bouncers. David strides towards the velvet couches. With every step, the DJ seems to turn the music one notch louder. Before David reaches the booth, he freezes.

Laying before him is the source of his panic. The dancefloor.

In its current state, the floor was scattered with small circles of drunk white girls spilling their overpriced drinks and screaming lyrics they barely remember. It all seemed so harmless. But David knew what was about to happen. He’s been here before. He knows what he becomes.

Before David could find an alternate path, the alcohol hits his system, the molly kicks in, and the DJ turns on the song. That dreaded, cursed song that forces grown men to obey, refined women to shame themselves, and white people to be all culty.

A sultry voice rings off the club walls. A simple statement kicks everyone off. “New Cupid.” Bold. Brilliant. The phrase is followed by a hauntingly perfect humming riff. The enticing whisper follows, “Cupid. Shuffle. Cupid. Shuffle. Cupid. Shuffle. Cupid. Shuffle.”

Then, the ancient call to the dancefloor. “Down, down do your dance, do your dance.” The phrase repeats in a ritualistic rhythm, entrancing all tipsy patrons.

David is no longer in control. His feet slide onto the sticky floor. His hands raise above his head. His shoulders swirl in an awkward wave motion. He wants to fight it, but he can’t.

David doesn’t remember if he was pushed, or walked on his volition. Either way, in the next moment, David was at the center of the dancefloor. He’s surrounded by drunk people who have, somehow, aligned in a perfectly straight formation. Equal spacing for everyone willing to sacrifice themselves to the art of dance.

It begins. The entire group screams, “They say I’m a rapper, but I say no.” Everyone quickly mumbles off. Instinctively, the group recovers by taking one last sip of their drink. One last taste of hope before the darkness overcomes the club.

David moves with the group. He swigs the last of his gin & OJ. His communion. For after these few precious minutes, he will be born anew.

“To the right, to the right, to the right, to the right.”

David feels his feet moving, but nothing is going through his mind. His body no longer is his own. It has become one among many.

“To the left, to the left, to the left, to the left.”

As David moves, he feels a pulsing through his body. It starts, softly, in his feet, but quickly rises through this knees, to his stomach, his shoulders, until the feeling courses through every nerve in his body.

“Now kick, now kick, now kick, now kick.”

Through pure instinct, David kicks out his right foot first. He’s perfectly synchorized with the white people on the dancefloor. Tapped into some kind of ancestrial gene that loves being told how to dance through song.

“Now walk it by yourself. Walk it by yourself.”

It all goes black.

David awakes on a couch in some unknown apartment. The view of the city is nice, but the floor is covered in taco wrappings and empty Bud Light Seltzers.

His head aches. His stomach is turning. There’s no Gatorade in the fridge. David has to improvise. This hangover needs to be solved NOW. So, he makes some cornbread.

Here is David’s cornbread recipe. Hope you enjoy!