red ribbon

Seems like life is a consolation prize of sorts: we don't always get exactly what we dreamed of, but (the word "but" almost invariably starts the writer's qualification and puts the reader on notice that "it's coming") if we're honest with ourselves (but who is?) most of life (at least I think, for us most of us white male Americans, I can't speak for anyone else because I'm this, not whatever most others are, which makes me a minority, doesn't it) is probably near enough to a blue ribbon that we should be content. 

We aren't always, there's always something missing or missed. Though for the most part, I think I probably am, basically content. Just so, exempli gratia, my breakfast this morning might have been a tall stack of blueberry pancakes, pats of butter melting and spreading and soaking in, with maple syrup flooded on and pouring down between the layers as I cut it with a knife, but (see?) pancakes would have been a pain in the butt to make at this hour on a Sunday when there are places to go, and besides, there are no blueberries. 

But (not this time) maple syrup is enough of a favorite that I have in the pantry here basically a lifetime supply. I don't think I can outlive my stash of maple syrup, which I buy from Vermont, Wisconsin or Michigan when it's on big sale, 25% or more off. I like dark not light amber, either Grade A Dark or Grade B, bold yet not gone off to maple sorghum, which I've had. I like a strong maple taste but I don't want sulfur in it. 

And there was (still is, I only took two slices) about half a loaf of slightly sweet French brioche, bread I bought last month while we were at The Carousel at PCB. 

So instead of blueberry pancakes as fully loaded as the proverbial fully loaded baked potato, I toasted two slices of brioche. While they were warming and slightly browning, in a shallow, wide, white soup bowl, I poured a puddle of maple syrup, tossed in one pat of butter, and a splash of half-and-half, and heated that 30 seconds, then a second 30 seconds, in the microwave oven. 

Toast ready, laid the slices down flat in the bowl of warm, nearly hot, maple. Second mug of black. Turned the toast over so the syrup &c soaked into the other side as well. Seeing all the sweet was absorbed, cut the bread into bite size, about seven bites per slice, so 14 or 15 bites. Soggy deliciousness.

Not the blueberry pancakes of my dreams, but (see?) as close as life brought me.

Yes, read between the gardenia lines if you like, it's yet another +Time blogpost to turn on the flashing yellow light for those who use my daily writing as a thermometer of Bubba's downhill progression. ὁ ἀναγινώσκων νοείτω. 

T