Apparently, this recipe isn’t a very well guarded secret. If you google it, you’ll find it.

Like a hypochondriac looking up symptoms of disease.

Speaking of which, arteries will be clogged after consuming these. Might want to look up “high blood pressure” or “Paula Deen” for a few cautionary tales.

I pretty much stuck with the original recipe but made a few with some crumbled bacon.

My cholesterol was already going to hell. Why not grease the path and slide down quicker?

OK NOW. Here’s another tale from childhood.

When I was a kid, I was in a “band” with my sister.

We were called Déjà Vu.

We performed nightly in the basement.

To a sold out crowd of discarded antiques, old workout equipment, scuttling mice and that demon that lives in the corner behind the freezer where mom kept all the bread.

“Bryan, go in the basement and get some more bread!” my mother would call out, sending chills down my spine.

She must have truly hated me.

I was like 10 or 11 when mom bought me my first Casio keyboard.

I was obsessed. I played it constantly.

I would sometimes lay next to it (like an episode of My Strange Addiction where the woman sleeps next to her running hair dryer) and play the demo song, Billy Joel’s “Just The Way You Are” OVER AND OVER.

My goal was to learn it myself from memory.

I would teach myself songs from listening to them repeatedly.

Holding my tape recorder up to the television speaker and recording commercials or songs from MTV before my parents had the cable company turn that station into snow.

“You’re not watching that crap!”

Similar to what the preacher in “Footloose” would have done next if he had been allowed to continue on his diabolical path.

My parents had a creepy old organ in our living room growing up (actually, it’s still there) and I would play that thing as well. Usually the theme to “Candyman” to scare my sister.

When I decided to create my own songs, I knew I had to enlist my sister for backup vocals.

I would write all the melodies, all the lyrics and play all the instruments except the random kitchen utensil I would force sis to bang on something with.

I would spend days and weeks perfecting these horrible songs.

I would surround myself with tape recorders in a forgotten corner of the basement. It was quite professional. I’m sure Quincy Jones started this way.

One tape recorder documenting the entire affair, one would be playing some instrumental tune (often Enya) and then I’d be playing my drums (usually a metal bar from a used Bowflex workout machine being pounded on a small stack of paper) while belting out our song.

Every year, Déjà vu would release a Christmas album. I’d spend hours on the cover art.

Desicrating old photo albums, stealing prized family memories and cutting them in funny shapes.

Christmas songs were always the most fun to record. My sister, who would normally misbehave or mess up the lyrics during the recording of all the other albums, would actually put forth some effort for my rendition of Jingle Bells, as there was no memorization involved.

Unless I had decided to make a funky version, watch out world. Christmas revolutionized.

Eventually, Déjà vu disbanded (upon realization that these songs were blackmail material) and the tapes were discarded in some long forgotten box.

About 10 years ago, I unearthed them and played one for my friend while I was driving.

I almost had to pull over I was so utterly embarrassed, tears coming to my eyes.

My music had almost caused an accident, for Pete’s sake.

This was the cheesiest thing ever produced and I’m almost positive I just heard a few Angels cry out in agony.

What if anyone got their hands on these tapes? There’s no way I’d be able to afford an assassin for the unfortunate victim and I really don’t have the stomach for offing myself.