Sticky.

So I came home late and I was really, really hungry which is awkward. You can eat earlier in the evening but theoretically if I get home after midnight I should go right to bed so I don’t turn into a pumpkin in the morning. Instead I’ve chosen to eat some toaster-ovened French toast. In the dark I gently poured maple syrup on my pile of French toast bits, watching to make sure it drained into the little wells left by the sad emptiness of not-French-toast space, but nowhere else. Very little syrup showed up. Ah, I said. Ah, it has all soaked into the toasty goodness.

It did not occur to me that perhaps… it hadn’t?

I sat on the sofa with my toasty pile. I read Whoopee and laughed. I ate French toast. I felt cosmopolitan in my jammies with French toast. My French toast pile grew somewhat smaller.

And then from a heretofore unknown crevice of space came a deluge of maple syrup, from an untipped plate pouring over two opposite sides of the plate at once, like water filling a newly-dug well. I looked for somewhere to put the plate, to put the computer. Where, for the love of Pete, where?

When it was all over I looked at my poor sofa, with its sticky deep chasms of syrup still waiting to be excavated, and I knew.

Responsible eating of French toast requires constant surveillance. And a table. Meh.

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One thought on “Sticky.

  1. That would explain the random bits of sticky this morning.

    Still, french toast at midnight is totally worth it. Why did we not think of it on that night we were craving cake?

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