Heaven, that’s what it was, pure and simple: buttery, sugary, heaven. I wasn’t going to stop until I either A. fell into a diabetic coma, or B. got kicked out for licking the plate, whatever came first. And no, I wasn’t ashamed. I knew the consequences. I’ve watched the “Sugar Will Kill You” documentaries. But you live in Asia for six months, where canned tomatoes thrown on runny eggs passes as an acceptable way to start the day, and then tell me you wouldn’t crawl naked across a frozen lake for a plate of steaming flapjacks. Sometimes you have to unbutton your jeans, wish your liver all the best, and pick up the fork.
Don’t judge me.
What? Did I forget to mention the MAPLE SYRUP? God created that on the seventh day. You thought he was resting all day? I mean, he was, but I like to think that he was also putting the cherry on top of creation. Whales: amazing, stinky, but amazing. Glaciers: breathtaking and silent. Mosquitoes: … well, anyway, all of those pale in comparison to whole giant forests of maple trees.
You see, maples have leaves that turn to fire in the fall and don’t tell me that Instagram isn’t better for that little feature. Also, maple-tree-blood that improves the taste of almost EVERYTHING, anything from blueberries to steak.
You don’t believe me? Fine, go ask a Canadian.
Note: Those are my words, but what are yours?