Oh shit, son, you wanna see some cornbread? I'll make up some cornbread. Not right now, though. It's like 80 out there and the turkey soup is gonna be plenty hot for the weather. My recipe comes down from the Dust Bowl plains of West Texas circa 1890. It is not what most jack-holes consider "cornbread" because for some stupid reason, "cornbread" in the US became "banana bread with corn instead of bananas" when it's supposed to be "that which you shovel up your beans with." Cooking is mixing. Baking is chemistry. I do not fuck around with chemistry. If there's a state change or a maillard reaction or a potential for curdling or anything like that upon which the recipe is dependent, I follow it religiously. If it's without any of that, I freestyle. Oddly enough, my daughter's "dad-style" and "mom-style" are going to be completely inverted from yours. Mom's the baker. Shit, mom's the vintner. Another reason to get more room: we had to leave the wine-making supplies in WA.