Cook Everything in Butter

Oil is for the timid. Margarine is for the deceived. Butter is for men who know life is short, steak is sacred, and flavour matters more than the fake health sermons peddled by soy-sipping nutritionists.

Butter is civilisation. It’s France in a skillet. It’s grandma’s Sunday roast. It’s the secret behind every meal worth remembering. We abandoned it for canola oil and “vegetable spreads” because corporate scientists told us to fear saturated fat, then wondered why our food tasted like cardboard and our arteries clogged anyway.

Cooking in butter isn’t just about taste. It’s an act of rebellion. It says: I reject your sterile, lifeless, ultra-processed sludge. Butter is natural. It comes from cows, not chemistry sets. It browns, it sizzles, it makes eggs glorious and steak divine.

The Left wants you weak, joyless, and compliant, munching kale chips while nodding along to climate doom sermons. A man who fries everything in butter is dangerous: he has taste, independence, and cholesterol that would terrify a modern GP.

So cook in butter. Drench your pan in it. Watch it foam and turn nutty brown. Toss your vegetables until they shine. Let your steak bathe in it like a king. And when someone lectures you about heart health, smile, because you know life without butter isn’t worth living.