Tuesday, Mar. 28, 2006
On the weekend we had the usual flood of family and friends at the sugar house, basking in the maple goodness. In amongst them was a tiny, perfect toddler, a child of such amazing sweetness that I almost fell into a diabetic coma just from being in her presence.
And then it happened. She let out the tiniest, most microscopic little sneeze you ever heard, almost a sub-micron sneeze.
At that instant I knew I was toast. Toddlers are disease ridden cauldrons of human pestilence and the only question on my mind was just how close to death would I come.
It is grim. I have a low grade fever, headache, coupled with a deep, deep bronchial cough that has left my diaphragm aching. I hurt.
But the show has to go on. So I worked in the sugar house yesterday, being very careful to keep away from my brother-in-law. The hot steam from the arches actually helped my lungs and I almost instantly stopped coughing. It was like living in a maple scented humidifier for five hours.
Only then I had to go home. The spousal unit and I walked the quarter mile uphill to our home at a turtle pace because my lungs hurt if I tried for more. When we got in the door I was just too tired to face anything, but almost dying of starvation. The spousal unit offered to take over supper duties, so I suggested pancakes with some of the fresh maple syrup he'd carried up with him.
Then I crawled upstairs and huddled under the covers for a fitful nap.
I awoke to him gently shaking my shoulder, announcing that the pancakes were ready. Drowsily I stumbled downstairs to the table where I saw …
Well, they were pancake like, I will give him that. They were roundish and all, but somehow they hadn't risen. They looked more like traditional French crępes than the hearty pancakes I usually make.
Well, appearance isn't everything, right?
I bit into one. They tasted … odd.
I tried to figure out what was wrong exactly and I realized that he had forgotten to put in salt. Hrm. So I asked him if he had followed my recipe.
There was a pause. Then the spousal unit confessed that he hadn't so much followed the recipe as glanced at it and then gone his own way. Thus, I was not so much eating pancakes as a riff on pancakes, pancakes thumbing their nose at The Man and The Man's rigid notions about recipes.
"These are freedom pancakes," the spousal unit announced grandly.
I laughed so hard I almost died of a bronchial coughing fit. It actually hurt to breathe but I couldn't stop laughing.
Freedom pancakes. Tee hee.
Oh well. Fresh maple syrup is the nectar of the gods. Put enough fresh maple syrup on cardboard, and cardboard would taste delicious. Even freedom pancakes could be overcome with the judicious use of fresh maple goodness, which is what I did.
I still feel like crap today, but a little less death-y than yesterday. Maple trees wait for no woman, so in an hour or so I'll be back down in the sugar house for another six or seven hours.
Keep your fingers crossed that there aren't any more toddlers. One has left me kneecapped. Two of those little weapons of mass destruction, and I'll be pushing up daisies, for sure.
Want to delve into my sordid past?
She's mellllllllllllllting - Wednesday, Feb. 15, 2012 - Back off, Buble - Monday, Dec. 19, 2011 - Dispersed - Monday, Nov. 28, 2011 - Nothing comes for free - Monday, Nov. 21, 2011 - None of her business - Friday, Nov. 04, 2011 -
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