The pre-boiled corn baron decided that the flour's obvious destiny was not to fuel rebel ovens, but to bathe in phosphorous oil. With fanfare and festivity in the conference room, the Empire announces its last great civilizational crusade, the annexation of a century-old factory of compressed cardboard and yellow chemical paste. While in every corner a potter burns red hot, sealing the tight and toasted dough, pregnant with crispy chicharon, macada sweaty with sweet chili, wild sardine from the coast or thick avocado of the queen of Papiada, from the heights of the corporation they write down the example of progress for us: replace the memory of the stove with a bucket of fried cellulose and flavored tar suitable for baseball stadiums and halls Air-conditioned cinema. You need a refined contempt for the popular palate to call the final capitulation to edible plastic a "global conquest". A century of Texan lineage to perfect the art of bottling a radioactive liquid that no bacterium dares to break down has now been renamed for the transnational glory of Creole beer. This is the sophistication of gastronomic colonialism: it was not enough to monopolize the ancient grain; Now they want the state to chew on tasteless triangles designed by polymer engineers, lubricated with a fluorescent drug that only exists thanks to subsidies from the petrochemical industry. Let them keep their concessions in eighty states, their theme parks of boredom and mountains of indifferent nachos. Here the resistance is not dissipated with a gas station rig or a nitrogen packed vacuum. The sovereign is not listed on the stock exchanges where they celebrate the purchase of junk food to appease the masses with salt and yellow number five. Here the dough resists, alive and smoking, kneaded in water and pure salt, crackling with a candle against all the plastic in the world.