Martha Lane, 78, has spent half a century perfecting biscuits that crumble like memories and taste like Sunday mornings. This week she declared an unprecedented campaign against generative AI after a recipe app published what it curiously labeled a "regional biscuit technique" — a recipe Lane maintains was cribbed from her handwritten index cards.
"They turned my grandmother's notes into a filter and called it 'Regional Flair,'" Lane told a crowd of supporters while brandishing a butter knife like a gavel. "These bots don't know bad coffee or the lullaby somebody hummed while folding dough."
Lane staged what she called a "biscuit intervention" at the community center, forcing three local influencers to sample biscuits while answering probing questions about intent, provenance, and whether their content had ever been shared by their nephew. "If your recipe cannot tell me a story about the oven, it's suspicious," Lane said.
Her manifesto mixes practical steps (always use lard in winter) with theatrical demands: she wants recipe platforms to include a "made-by" label (human, hybrid, synthetic) and to require provenance for anything that claims 'family recipe.' She also suggested that restaurants that can prove human-authored recipes be eligible for a modest heritage grant.
"People ask me why I'm being dramatic," Lane said. "But recipes carry memory. The machines can spit directions, but they can't inherit patience."
Local journalists noted that the controversy raised thorny questions about attribution, cultural appropriation, and whether the models should be required to credit Living Grandmas — a proposal one tech PR firm called "unscalable but delightful." An aggrieved startup responded with a blog post titled "AI: Democratizing Detritus," and later quietly removed the biscuit "technique" from its front page.
Lane promises more actions. She plans to open weekend "biscuit salons" and to release a zine called Scratchings that will contain interviews, diagrams, and marginalia. "If they want the algorithm to taste humanity, they can stand in my kitchen," she said, waving a flour-dusted rolling pin. "But they won't get my recipe. Not unless they send a handwritten letter and a pie."