My mom's special weekend treat for me were either Aunt Jemima panacakes (from the mix) or the frozen waffles. They were nestled happily next to scrambled eggs and bacon, and all drowned in warm maple syrup dappled with lumps of still melting butter. Oh, and only real maple please. I could always taste a fake. I always left the bacon for last, swirling each rasher one by one through the syrup puddles.
The syrup and almost sweet fatty rind became one, melting on my tongue. All this playfulness was corralled, then, by the toothsome, savory streak of meat. I ate each piece slowly, knowing that this was only a limited time only occasion; my mother worked during the week, and it would be silly to expect her to make me breakfast every morning. But, as with any addiction, weekends just weren't enough.
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