Pancakes And Syrup Quotes

Percy was eating a huge stack of blue pancakes (what was his deal with blue food?) while Annabeth chided him for pouring on too much syrup. “You’re drowning them!” she complained. “Hey, I’m a Poseidon kid,” he said. “I can’t drown. And neither can my pancakes.

Tova knew there was a bottom to those depths of despair. Once your soul was soaked through with grief, any more simply ran off, overflowed, the way maple syrup on Saturday morning pancakes always cascaded onto the table whenever Erik was allowed to pour it on himself.

Tova wonders sometimes if it’s better that way, to have one’s tragedies clustered together, to make good use of the existing rawness. Get it over with in one shot. Tova knew there was a bottom to those depths of despair. Once your soul was soaked though with grief, any more simply ran off, overflowed, the way maple syrup on Saturday-morning pancakes always cascaded onto the table whenever Erik was allowed to pour it himself.

In my mind, I built stairways. At the end of the stairways, I imagined rooms. These were high, airy places with big windows and a cool breeze moving through. I imagined one room opening brightly onto another room until I'd built a house, a place with hallways and more staircases. I built many houses, one after another, and those gave rise to a city -- a calm, sparkling city near the ocean, a place like Vancouver. I put myself there, and that's where I lived, in the wide-open sky of my mind. I made friends and read books and went running on a footpath in a jewel-green park along the harbour. I ate pancakes drizzled in syrup and took baths and watched sunlight pour through trees. This wasn't longing, and it wasn't insanity. It was relief. It got me through.

Annabeth chided him for pouring on too much syrup. "You're drowning them!" She complained. "Hey, I'm a Poseidon kid," he said. "I can't drown. And neither can my pancakes.

Just cause you put syrup on something, don't make it pancakes

Lucas too was shoveling pancakes into his mouth. Syrup dripped from the sexy stubble that covered his chin and her mouth watered at the sight. Fallon no longer wanted the syrup that covered her pancakes. More like the syrup from his chin, and lips, or hell just dump it on him!!!

He expected pages and pages of bright pictures of pancakes of every variety shown in plain stacks, or built into castles or bridges or igloos, or shaped like airplanes or rowboats or fire engines. And pitchers of syrup to choose from -- partridge berry syrup, thimbleberry syrup, huckleberry syrup, bosenberry syrup, and raspberry syrup. Then there would be cheese plates and cheeses a la carte. Creamy cheeses, crumbly cheeses, and peculiar little cheeses in peculiar little clay pots.

Liam's hands are curled into fists, as if he is ready to throw punches right in the middle of IHOP, which is of course a dumb place to fight. There are children here, and polyester booths, and smiley-face pancakes. Multiple kinds of syrup. Some of the drinks even come with maraschino cherries.

Percy was eating a huge stack of blue pancakes (what was his deal with blue food?) while Annabeth chided him for pouring on too much syrup. ‘You’re drowning them!’ she complained. ‘Hey, I’m a Poseidon kid,’ he said. ‘I can’t drown. And neither can my pancakes.

Really? Is there anyone here one hundred percent human? No. I think dying from an unbuckled belt is the least of our concerns right now.” – Sasha “And I don’t put it in drive until everyone’s secure. That means you, wolfboy.” – Sundown “Un-frakkin’-believable. I’m in hell. With a lunatic. Might as well have stayed with Zarek. Next thing you know, you’ll be drowning pancakes with syrup, too. (He made a grand showing of buckling himself in.) Hope you get fleas.” – Sasha

As with most women, your body instinctively knows that calories are morphine for aching hearts and badly bruised egos. Slather butter over your pancakes with a vengeance and drown them all in maple syrup.

Once your soul was soaked though with grief, any more simply ran off, overflowed, the way maple syrup on Saturday-morning pancakes always cascaded onto the table whenever Erik was allowed to pour it himself.

Everyone buckled in?" Sasha snorted, then gaped as he realized Jess wasn't joking about it. "Really?" Is there anyone here one hundred percent human? No. I think dying from an unbuckled belt is the least of our concerns right now." "And I don't put it in drive until everyone's secure. That means you, wolfboy." Sasha's exasperated expression was priceless. "Unfrakkin'-believable. I'm in hell. With a lunatic. Might as well have stayed with Zarek. Next thing you know, you'll be drowning pancakes in syrup, too." He made a grand showing of buckling himself in. "Hope you get fleas" he mumbled under his breath. "Thank you." Jess pulled out of the garage. She pressed her lips together to keep from laughing at them. No doubt they'd take turns beating on her if she did. Curling his lip, Sasha sarcastically mocked his words in silence. "By the way, cowboy, you do know that if we were to wreck, I can teleport out of this thing right?" "Is Scooby still bitching?" Jess asked Choo Co La Tah. "Remind me to check his vet record when we get back. I think he might have distemper or rabies or something.

But then she says, "What if we use our cookie cutter to make heart-shaped pancakes instead? And put in red food coloring?" I beam at her. "Attagirl!" So maybe she's got a little bit of me in her after all. Kitty continues. "We could put red food coloring in the syrup, too, to make it look like blood. A bloody heart!

Robart blinked, momentarily thrown off track, but recovered. “I will have my knight returned to me.” Knight? What knight? Oh shoot. I had completely forgotten about the vampire who’d almost chopped the police car in a half. I’d left him in the basement holding cell for almost four hours. I concentrated. The knight was alive and well. He was sitting on the floor meditating. I gave the floor a little push and felt it slide up, carrying the knight with it. “You will find your knight in your quarters.” Robart nodded. His gaze narrowed. “Perhaps if you were less heavy-handed in your treatment of the guests you claim to honor and protect, your inn would have a higher rating.” He did not. Oh yes, yes he did. “Perhaps if you trained the knights under your command to follow simple orders, your House would’ve reached greater prominence within your empire.” Robart locked his jaw. If my smile were any sweeter, you could pour it on pancakes and call it syrup.

I love how pancake syrup comes in a sports bottle. That makes it easy to squirt in your mouth while running a marathon. But if you are really thirsty, try drinking scrambled duck eggs.

The sad truth of it was that he was too weak to move out. Not physically, but in every other way under the sun. If he left, he would miss the pancakes. He’d miss the syrup. Three times a day, she pricked him with a needle to make sure he was burning it all off and not going diabetic again; if he moved away, he’d miss that too. A little bloodshed was a negligible price to pay for the brief but electrifying thrill of having her touch him. Honestly, the ritual stabbings were fast becoming his favorite part of the day.

A Letter to Andre Breton, Originally Composed on a Leaf of Lettuce With an Ink-dipped Carrot On my bed, my green comforter draped over my knees like a lumpy turtle, I think about the Berlin Wall of years that separates us. In my own life, the years are beginning to stack up like a Guinness World Record’s pile of pancakes, yet I’m still searching for some kind of syrup to believe in. In the shadows of my pink sheet, I see your face, Desnos’ face, and two clock faces staring at each other. I see a gaping wound that ebbs rose petals, while a sweaty armpit holds an orchestra. Beethoven, maybe. A lover sings a capella, with the frothiness of a cappuccino. Starbucks, maybe. There’s an hourglass, too, and beneath the sands lie untapped oil reserves. I see Dali’s mustache, Magritte’s pipe, and bowling shoes, which leaves the question-- If you could time travel through a trumpet, would you find today and tomorrow too loud?

We eat pancakes to escape loneliness, yet within moments we want nothing more than our freedom from ever having so much as thought about pancakes. Nothing can prevent us, after eating pancakes, from feeling the most awful regret. After eating pancakes, our great mission in life becomes the repudiation of the pancakes and everything served along with them, the bacon and the syrup and the sausage and coffee and jellies and jams. But these things are beneath mention, compared with the pancakes themselves. It is the pancake--Pancakes! Pancakes!--that we never learn to respect.

The world might be sunny-side up today. The big ball of yellow might be spilling into the clouds, runny and yolky and blurring into the bluest sky, bright with cold hope and false promises about fond memories, real families, hearty breakfasts, stacks of pancakes drizzled in maple syrup sitting on a plate in a world that doesn’t exist anymore. Or maybe not. Maybe it’s dark and wet today, whistling wind so sharp it stings the skin off the knuckles of grown men. Maybe it’s snowing, maybe it’s raining, I don’t know maybe it’s freezing it’s hailing it’s a hurricane slip slipping into a tornado and the earth is quaking apart to make room for our mistakes.

I can think of no sadder example of our food paradigm than two posters taped to the window of a California IHOP. One is a colorful photo of pancakes heaped with bananas, strawberries, nuts, syrups and whipped cream with the caption, 'Welcome to Paradise.' Lower down, an 8x10 photocopy states: 'Chemicals known to cause cancer or birth defects or other reproductive harm may be present in food or beverages sold here.' Such signs are posted on many fast-food outlets. Heaven isn't a place on earth, at least not at these drive-throughs.

The syrup we pour over pancakes on a winter morning is summer sunshine flowing in golden streams to pool on our plates.

Or it could be a Panakes,” Calla breathed. For a second Sophie thought Calla had said “Pancakes” and found herself picturing a tree made of fluffy griddle cakes drizzled with syrup and butter.

Je hebt hetzelfde met boeken en vrouwen,’ zeg ik en het is waar, ik word weleens moe van mezelf, van dit soort halsstarrig moeten spreken over alles waarover het moeilijk spreken is en dat ik het niet kan en wil laten, ook al is het zeven uur in de ochtend en zitten we tegenover elkaar in een Amerikaans stadje en heb ik net de initialen van zijn naam met maple syrup op een pancake neergedrupt.

The maple brings tourists who come to marvel at the blazing colours of the autumn leaves and it brings cash dollars in the form of the unctuous, faintly metallic syrup that Americans like to pour all over their breakfast, on waffles and pancakes certainly, but on bacon too. Sounds alarming to English ears, but actually it is rather delicious. Like crack, crystal meth, and Chocolate HobNobs, one nibble and you're hooked for life.

Tova knew there was a bottom to those depths of despair. Once your soul was soaked though with grief, any more simply ran off, overflowed, the way maple syrup on Saturday-morning pancakes always cascaded onto the table whenever Erik was allowed to pour it himself.

unctuous, faintly metallic syrup that Americans like to pour all over their breakfast, on waffles and pancakes certainly, but on bacon too. Sounds alarming to English ears, but actually it is rather delicious. Like crack, crystal meth and Chocolate HobNobs, one nibble and you’re hooked for life.

It was an eerie feeling, which is why Violet and Sunny were surprised when Klaus broke the silence by laughing suddenly. "What are you snickering at?" Violet asked. "I just realized something," Klaus said. "We're going to the administrative building without an appointment. We'll have to eat our meals without silverware." "There's nothing funny about that!" Violet said. "What if they serve oatmeal for breakfast? We'll have to scoop it up with our hands." "Oot," Sunny said, which meant "Trust me, it's not that difficult," and at that the Baudelaire sisters joined their brother in laughter. It was not funny, of course, that Nero enforced such terrible punishments, but the idea of eating oatmeal with their hands gave all three siblings the giggles. "Or fried eggs!" Violet said. "What if they serve runny fried eggs?" "Or pancakes, covered in syrup!" Klaus said. "Soup!" Sunny shrieked, and they all broke out in laughter again.

Well, the maple syrup is fantastic." Breakfast. She was glad Margo had brought the biscuits and gravy, she was definitely in the mood for that. "And the sous vide eggs that you put in the microwave for a minute and then top it with hot sauce and..." She rolled her eyes. "Bliss. Pancake mix, a hundred pounds of Dubliner cultured butter, fresh orange juice, I mean, the place is just amazing.

1 cup of ordinary white flour a pinch of salt 2 eggs 2½ cups of milk and water (1½ cups of milk and 1 cup of water mixed) 1 tablespoon of either vegetable oil or melted butter (You’ll also need some granulated sugar and a couple of lemons to put on the pancakes, along with other things like jams and possibly even maple syrup because you’re American.) Put the flour and salt in a mixing bowl. Crack the eggs in and whisk/fork the egg into the flour. Slowly add the milk/water mixture, stirring as you go, until there are no lumps and you have a liquid the consistency of a not-too-thick cream. Then put the mixture in the fridge overnight. Grease or butter or oil a nonstick frying pan. Heat it until it’s really hot (375 degrees according to one website, but basically, it has to be hot for the pancake to become a pancake. And these are crepes, French style, not thick American round pancakes). Stir the mixture you just took from the fridge thoroughly because the flour will all be at the bottom. Get an even consistency. Then ladle some mixture into the pan, thinly covering the bottom of the pan. When the underside of the pancake is golden, flip it (or, if you are brave, toss it). Cook another 30 seconds on the other side. For reasons I do not quite understand (although pan heat is probably the reason), the first one is always a bit disappointing. Often it’s a burnt, sludgy, weird thing, always, in my family, eaten by the cook (which was me). Just keep going, and the rest will be fine. Sprinkle sugar in the middle. And then squeeze some lemon juice on, preferably from a lemon. Then wrap it like a cigar and feed it to a child. (You can experiment with other things in the middle, like Nutella or jam or even maple syrup—but remember that these pancakes are not syrup-absorbent like American-style pancakes.) This is a very peculiar interview, Joe. Let me know how the pancakes come out.

How about we just cut the waffle into the shape of a heart instead?” “That would look so cheap,” I scoff. But she’s right. There’s no sense in buying something we’d only ever use once a year, even if it only costs $19.99. As Kitty gets older, I see that she is far more like Margot than me. But then she says, “What if we use our cookie cutter to make heart-shaped pancakes instead? And put in red food coloring?” I beam at her. “Attagirl!” So maybe she’s got a little bit of me in her after all. Kitty continues. “We could put red food coloring in the syrup, too, to make it look like blood. A bloody heart!” No, never mind. Kitty is all her own.

There is no single food that affects people as deeply as bacon. Bacon appeals to our basest desires of meat and fat and salt. It elevates everything it touches, transforming a burger into a celebration, taking simple lettuce and tomato and making them more delicious than any salad vegetable has a right to be. Bacon is the ultimate polyamorous food, loving everyone equally, eggs and pancakes, sandwiches and salads, meats and vegetables, mains and sides, savory and sweet. Bacon on grilled cheese? Delicious. Bacon dipped in the maple syrup from your French toast? Sublime. Watch a breakfast buffet, and see where people consistently overindulge. I bet it will be the vat of bacon, which sends its smoky siren song out to everyone.

Happy Camper Tip #10   Veggie Pancakes—These are delicious, healthier than regular pancakes, and can be made ahead and warmed up. Grate two cups of zucchini and one cup of carrots. Add one cup of corn—frozen works best. Stir in one egg, two tablespoons of plain yogurt, one half teaspoon of salt and one eighth teaspoon of pepper. Combine one half cup of flour, one half cup of corn meal and two teaspoons of baking powder and add to veggie mixture. Stir well and add one half cup of cheese. In a skillet with a small amount of oil, use a scant quarter cup of batter for each pancake and flatten slightly with a fork. Cook about three minutes on a side and drain on paper towels. Store in the refrigerator between layers of waxed paper and reheat in the microwave. Excellent with butter and syrup or ranch dressing.

All about them the golden girls, shopping for dainties in Lairville. Even in the midst of the wild-maned winter's chill, skipping about in sneakers and sweatsocks, cream-colored raincoats. A generation in the mold, the Great White Pattern Maker lying in his prosperous bed, grinning while the liquid cools. But he does not know my bellows. Someone there is who will huff and will puff. The sophmores in their new junior blazers, like Saturday's magazines out on Thursday. Freshly covered textbooks from the campus store, slide rules dangling in leather, sheathed broadswords, chinos scrubbed to the virgin fiber, starch pressed into straight-razor creases, Oxford shirts buttoned down under crewneck sweaters, blue eyes bobbing everywhere, stunned by the android synthesis of one-a-day vitamins, Tropicana orange juice, fresh country eggs, Kraft homogenized cheese, tetra-packs of fortified milk, Cheerios with sun-ripened bananas, corn-flake-breaded chicken, hot fudge sundaes, Dairy Queen root beer floats, cheeseburgers, hybrid creamed corn, riboflavin extract, brewer's yeast, crunchy peanut butter, tuna fish casseroles, pancakes and imitation maple syrup, chuck steaks, occasional Maine lobster, Social Tea biscuits, defatted wheat germ, Kellogg's Concentrate, chopped string beans, Wonderbread, Birds Eye frozen peas, shredded spinach, French-fried onion rings, escarole salads, lentil stews, sundry fowl innards, Pecan Sandies, Almond Joys, aureomycin, penicillin, antitetanus toxoid, smallpox vaccine, Alka-Seltzer, Empirin, Vicks VapoRub, Arrid with chlorophyll, Super Anahist nose spray, Dristan decongestant, billions of cubic feet of wholesome, reconditioned breathing air, and the more wholesome breeds of fraternal exercise available to Western man. Ah, the regimented good will and force-fed confidence of those who are not meek but will inherit the earth all the same.

I’m hot-gluing white bric-a-brac around a heart as I wonder aloud, “Should we do a special breakfast for Daddy? We could buy one of those juicers at the mall and make fresh-squeezed pink grapefruit juice. And I think I saw heart waffle makers online for not very expensive.” “Daddy doesn’t like grapefruit,” Kitty says. “And we barely use our regular waffle maker as it is. How about we just cut the waffle into the shape of a heart instead?” “That would look so cheap,” I scoff. But she’s right. There’s no sense in buying something we’d only ever use once a year, even if it only costs $19.99. As Kitty gets older, I see that she is far more like Margot than me. But then she says, “What if we use our cookie cutter to make heart-shaped pancakes instead? And put in red food coloring?” I beam at her. “Attagirl!” So maybe she’s got a little bit of me in her after all. Kitty continues. “We could put red food coloring in the syrup, too, to make it look like blood. A bloody heart!” No, never mind. Kitty is all her own.

But I enjoy eating these days. More of us do than care to admit it publicly. I revel in it, as one only revels in pursuits one does not need. The runner enjoys running when she need not ee a lion. Sex improves when decoupled—sorry—from animalist procreative desperation (or even from the desperation of not having had sex in a while, as I’ve had cause to note after my recent two decades’ sojourn and attendant dry spell). I bite blueberry pancakes drizzled with maple syrup, extra butter—that expanding u, the berry’s pop against my teeth, butter’s bloom in my mouth. I explore sweetnesses and textures. I’m never hungry, so I don’t race to the next bite. I eat glass, and as it cuts my gums, I savor minerals, metals, impurities; I see the beach from which some poor bastard skimmed the sand. Small rocks taste of the river, of rubbed sh scale, of glaciers long gone. They crunch, crisp, celery-like. I share the sensation with fellow acionados; they share theirs with me, though there’s lag, and sensor granularity remains an issue. So, a roundabout way of saying: I love to eat.

The waitress delivered me a plate of towering blueberry pancakes dripping in butter. The sweet scent of the fluffy goodness had my stomach rumbling in appreciation. I pushed back my tall glass of orange juice to make way for the food that was about to be introduced to my belly. I swirled my finger around in a giant pad of softening butter and brought it to my lips as the waitress handed Holt his own stack of pancakes plus a plate loaded with scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast. When she was gone, I reached for the syrup. “Are you trying to kill me?” Holt said, leaning over the table and stabbing his fork in my direction. I glanced dubiously at the fork. “Are you trying to kill me?” He grinned. “You can’t just go around licking your fingers like that, Freckles. It makes a man forget he’s in a public place.” I laughed and dug into my pancakes, shoving an unladylike bite into my mouth and then groaning as the sweetness slid over my tongue. “There you go again,” he said, his eyes darkening with desire. “Wasn’t last night and this morning enough for you?” I asked playfully. “I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you.

At the end of The Story of Little Babaji they make pancakes out of the tigers that have transformed into butter, and eat them. I think they mix the tiger-butter into the batter. Or put it on top. Maybe they even melt it in the frying pan.' But Rika's words got lost amid the sound of the pancake mix being poured into the pan. She heard the noise of the pancake being flipped and sticking again to the pan. After a while, Makoto came over with a plate in his hand. The perfectly round, golden brown pancake was steaming, the maple syrup shining, and the knob of butter on top beginning to melt. She brought her hands together, and said, 'Itadakimasu.' With a fork, Rika broke off a small piece of the pancake, revealing its bright yellow insides. The way that the batter with its structure of fine air bubbles and countless little pillars supported the surface layer, burnished to a deep brown, was proof that it had been well mixed. The butter slid around sluggishly. Rika put a tiny sliver into her mouth. She instructed her teeth to bite, and with some effort, succeeded in moving her mouth, chewing the soft, warm pancake into which the salted butter and syrup had been absorbed.

Geopolitics is ultimately the study of the balance between options and lim­itations. A country's geography determines in large part what vulnerabilities it faces and what tools it holds. "Countries with flat tracks of land -- think Poland or Russia -- find building infrastructure easier and so become rich faster, but also find them­selves on the receiving end of invasions. This necessitates substantial stand­ing armies, but the very act of attempting to gain a bit of security automat­ically triggers angst and paranoia in the neighbors. "Countries with navigable rivers -- France and Argentina being premier examples -- start the game with some 'infrastructure' already baked in. Such ease of internal transport not only makes these countries socially uni­fied, wealthy, and cosmopolitan, but also more than a touch self-important. They show a distressing habit of becoming overimpressed with themselves -- and so tend to overreach. "Island nations enjoy security -- think the United Kingdom and Japan -- in part because of the physical separation from rivals, but also because they have no choice but to develop navies that help them keep others away from their shores. Armed with such tools, they find themselves actively meddling in the affairs of countries not just within arm's reach, but half a world away. "In contrast, mountain countries -- Kyrgyzstan and Bolivia, to pick a pair -- are so capital-poor they find even securing the basics difficult, mak­ing them largely subject to the whims of their less-mountainous neighbors. "It's the balance of these restrictions and empowerments that determine both possibilities and constraints, which from my point of view makes it straightforward to predict what most countries will do: · The Philippines' archipelagic nature gives it the physical stand-off of is­lands without the navy, so in the face of a threat from a superior country it will prostrate itself before any naval power that might come to its aid. · Chile's population center is in a single valley surrounded by mountains. Breaching those mountains is so difficult that the Chileans often find it easier to turn their back on the South American continent and interact economically with nations much further afield. · The Netherlands benefits from a huge portion of European trade because it controls the mouth of the Rhine, so it will seek to unite the Continent economically to maximize its economic gain while bringing in an exter­nal security guarantor to minimize threats to its independence. · Uzbekistan sits in the middle of a flat, arid pancake and so will try to expand like syrup until it reaches a barrier it cannot pass. The lack of local competition combined with regional water shortages adds a sharp, brutal aspect to its foreign policy. · New Zealand is a temperate zone country with a huge maritime frontage beyond the edge of the world, making it both wealthy and secure -- how could the Kiwis not be in a good mood every day? "But then there is the United States. It has the fiat lands of Australia with the climate and land quality of France, the riverine characteristics of Germany with the strategic exposure of New Zealand, and the island fea­tures of Japan but with oceanic moats -- and all on a scale that is quite lit­erally continental. Such landscapes not only make it rich and secure beyond peer, but also enable its navy to be so powerful that America dominates the global oceans.

I made him ricotta pancakes with pecan syrup for breakfast. And he ate them, knowing he’d be dumping me right afterward. What kind of person does that?

Clear your kitchen of all obvious wheat and grain sources •Wheat-based products: bread, rolls, breakfast cereals, pasta, orzo, bagels, muffins, pancakes and pancake mixes, waffles, doughnuts, pretzels, cookies, crackers •Bulgur and triticale (both related to wheat) •Barley products: barley, barley breads, soups with barley, vinegars with barley malt •Rye products: rye bread, pumpernickel bread, crackers •All corn products: corn, cornstarch, cornmeal products (chips, tacos, tortillas), grits, polenta, sauces or gravies thickened with cornstarch, corn syrup, high-fructose corn syrup, breakfast cereals •Rice products: white rice, brown rice, wild rice, rice cakes, breakfast cereals •Oat products: oatmeal, oat bran, oat cereals •Amaranth •Teff •Millet •Sorghum

I made the Gruyère cheese soufflé and the grilled ham with apricot sauce. Nathan prepared the yogurt parfaits with fruit compote." "Nathan, how'd it go with this first challenge?" "Good. I think I managed okay." His eyes were wild and he looked slightly shell-shocked. "Did you get a chance to taste Helene's food?" "Yeah." He nodded vigorously. "She's good." The other contestants laughed at the understatement. Jenny clapped her hands together. "My favorite dish was an American specialty. Buckwheat pancakes with a trio of toppings... classic maple syrup tapped right here at the farm, a blackberry sauce with mint, and a delicious maple walnut butter. And the bacon-wrapped Brussels sprouts side was crispy and salty and delicious.

They were organized, the Blackthorns, in the unconscious way that only a family could be: knowing who got pancakes first (Ty), who wanted butter and syrup (Dru), who wanted just syrup (Livvy), and who wanted sugar (Emma).

He thought it when Val stared at him over pancakes the next morning, the air swirling between them, thicker than butter and sweeter than syrup.

In the last thirty years our diet has changed dramatically. These days, children eat a diet high in simple carbohydrates (sugar, white bread, white-flour food products), poor in protein and healthy fat, and positively deficient in vegetables. Think about the great American breakfast. Morning time is often rushed especially when both parents work outside the home, and there is less time to fix a nutritious breakfast. Kids eat Pop-Tarts, sugar cereals, donuts, frozen waffles, pancakes, or muffins. Gone are the days of sausage and eggs (protein), and sugar is in. Try to find bread in the store without sugar or forms of sugar (corn syrup, high-fructose syrup, etc.). In my local supermarket, only one out of about thirty brands of bread available—a dark Russian rye bread—is made without any sugar. Your diet provides the fuel

We drove to a place in Sandy Bay, right near the beach. They had so many things on the menu, but mostly they had lots of different types of pancakes. Pancakes with blueberries, pancakes with bacon and eggs, pancakes with baked banana and maple syrup. My brother’s serving had so much whipped cream on top that he had to dig a tunnel through the cream to get to the pancakes. He was full after about ten mouthfuls, and he seemed genuinely sad to leave so much behind. He’d tried his best but the pancakes had won.

At this point, Mrs. Hardy brought the discussion to an end by setting before each boy a stack of steaming, golden-brown pancakes. Aunt Gertrude came in behind her with a block of yellow butter and a tall pitcher of maple syrup. “There are more cakes on the griddle,” she said. “You need your strength.

The bees have some honey, in the white mirror of my Shop.

What is a pancake? Cooked batter, covered in sugar and butter. It is food. But it is not as food, not as sustenance that we crave the pancake. No, the pancake, or flapjack if you will, is a childish pleasure; smothered in syrup, buried beneath ice cream, the pancake symbolises our escape from respectability, eating as a form of infantile play. The environments where pancakes are served and consumed are, in this context, special playrooms for a public ravenous for sweetness, that delirious sweetness of long-ago breakfasts made by mother, sweetness of our infancy and our great, lost, toddler’s omnipotence. Look around. Notice, if you will, these lighting fixtures suspended from the ceiling like pretty mobiles over a crib. Notice the indestructible plastic orange seating materials designed to repel spills and stains. Notice these menus that unfold like colorful, laminated boards in those games we once played on rainy days at home, those unforgettable indoor days when we felt safe and warm, when we knew ourselves, absolutely, to be loved. We come to the Pancake House because we are hungry. We call out in our hearts to our mothers, and it is the Pancake House that answers. The Pancake House holds us! The Pancake House restores us to beloved infancy! The Pancake House is our mother in this motherless world!

You can pour syrup on a turd, but that don’t make it a pancake.

Tova wonders sometimes if it’s better that way, to have one’s tragedies clustered together, to make good use of the existing rawness. Get it over with in one shot. Tova knew there was a bottom to those depths of despair. Once your soul was soaked through with grief, any more simply ran off, overflowed, the way maple syrup on Saturday-morning pancakes always cascaded onto the table whenever Erik was allowed to pour it himself

Nah, little monster, we’re the pancakes, you’re the syrup, all over all of us, making us nice and sticky.

Maybe she hadn't worked in a restaurant, but anyone who made their cookbooks look like that must have known something. I flipped through a few others. Thai salads, meringue-topped cakes, Carolina barbecue. Then on the bottom shelves, I found a row of cheap black-and-white speckled notebooks. They didn't fit the grown-up vibe of the rest of the room. Everyone has a soft spot, Jay had said. I reached for one. "Cooking Notes," it said in sparkly green pen on the cover. The handwriting was rounder. A kid's. "October 25," I read slowly, trailing my finger along the page. Fish sticks. Cook at 400F for two minutes longer than the box says. Hank likes one tablespoon ketchup and one tablespoon yellow mustard mixed together. Mom likes one tablespoon mayonnaise with juice of a quarter of a lemon and one teaspoon Tabasco. Hank's waffles. Toast Eggos on medium, put on butter and maple syrup, then microwave for ten seconds to melt everything together. I flicked through a year of little Ellie's cooking. A lot of it was her trying to dress up convenience food--- pancakes, ramen. Toward the end of the notebook, she'd started to try random scratch recipes. Ground Turkey Tacos had lots of stars and fireworks drawn around it, while another for zucchini omelets only had "Yuck.

CHOCOLATE BANANA PANCAKES WITH WHOLE GRAIN Ingredients: 1¼ cup whole wheat pastry flour 3 tbsp. cocoa powder 1½ tsp. ground cinnamon 1 tsp. baking soda ½ tsp. salt ¼ cup sugar 2 tbsp. butter, melted, plus more for pan ½ tsp. vanilla extract 1 cup milk 1 medium very ripe banana, mashed (about ½ cup) 1 egg Sliced bananas and chocolate syrup, for serving Directions: Whisk the flour, cocoa, soda, cinnamon, and salt in a bowl and then set it aside. Whisk sugar, 1 tbsp. butter, vanilla, milk, banana, and egg

Does anyone ever actually use the strawberry syrup?” Henry poured some of the original old fashioned flavor over the pancakes that’d come with his omelet. “I’ve always wondered that,” Sasha replied. “I like the butter pecan.” She leaned forward in the IHOP booth, taking a long sip of her coffee.

Breakfast: Cinnamon Banana Pancakes These dairy-free and egg-free pancakes are not only delicious, but they are full of calcium, good fats and potassium that are healing to the body.   Serves: 2 Cooking time: 30 minutes   Ingredients: 4 overripe bananas, mashed 2 tablespoons coconut oil ½ teaspoon cinnamon powder ½ teaspoon allspice 2 tablespoons maple syrup

He walked with more confidence than a tomcat in a dark alley in Brooklyn, charmed everyone he met with only a smile, and oozed sex appeal like syrup dripping off a double stack of pancakes.

Microwaved Mug Pancake   Pancakes are known to almost everyone around the globe. Of course, it's not that all people like them, but are indeed familiar with this famous recipe and those who adore them can now enjoy in this quick, 1 minute recipe.   Yields: 1 Mug   Ingredients: 1 Oz of milk ¼ cup of Bisquick   Method of preparation: Mix in your mug Bisquick and milk with a fork, for a couple of seconds. Microwave it for 1 minute. Take it out of the microwave and serve with some syrup.

She’d heard someone say once that all the English secretly crave is breakfast three times a day. And for herself she knew it to be true. She could live on a diet of bacon, eggs, croissants, sausages, pancakes and maple syrup, porridge and rich, brown sugar. Fresh-squeezed orange juice and strong coffee. Of course, she’d be dead in a month. Dead.

Not eating?”               “Working.” I held up the menu and avoided those teasing eyes.               “You know, you could have come and worked for me, if you needed a job.” He layered butter over his feast.               I laughed and shook my head.               “What?” He started cutting up his pancakes. “You don’t think I’d make a good boss?” He poured syrup over the hotcakes.               I shrugged. “No.”               He laughed in surprise. “No?”               I kept my eyes on the menu and deftly stole a piece of his bacon. “Plus, I steal things.” I took a bite and chewed, without giving him a glance.               “Last time that happens,” he grumbled. I saw him turn his plate out of the corner of my eye, so that the bacon was further away.               I took another bite of my contraband to hide my smile.               Mrs. Winston set his coffee down and shook her head. “You want bacon, Hadley?”               I smiled. “Nah, it tastes better stolen,” I teased.               Max

We all laugh, talk and eat pie. Turning to Tina, I utter, “Nik must’ve been on you like syrup on pancakes if he got you pregnant that quick.” Looking pissed, she puts her hand on her hip. “I know, right? I told him we needed to use protection but he was all,” Putting on her best deep Nik voice, “Nah, baby. You’re breastfeeding. We don’t need to use a thing. It’ll be okay.” Her eyes widen and she continues, “The ass already knew he was knocking me up! Wasn’t even surprised when I told him I was pregnant. Just flashed me the damn dimple.” Smiling to herself, she looks over to us and admits, “It’s a magical dimple. It makes me do things I normally wouldn’t want to.

Leaving the Connecticut River March 8, 1704 Temperature 40 degrees The only good thing about this rough land was firewood. No human had ever gathered a fallen branch here. So they could stay warm, but they had nothing to cook over the flames. It seemed to Eben the Indians ought to worry more about this than they did. They spent every daylight hour looking for game, found nothing and did not mention it. Instead, they sat by the fire, smoked and told war stories. It was the captives who discussed food, describing meals they had had a month ago or hoped to have in the future. They discussed pancakes, maple syrup and butter. Stew and biscuits and apple pie. Ruth said to Mercy, “You and Eben and Joseph are so proud of your savage vocabulary. Tell them they’re Indians, they’re supposed to know how to find deer.” “There aren’t any deer,” said Joseph. Ruth snorted. “We just have stupid Indians.” Suddenly the whole thing seemed hilarious to Mercy: a little circle of starving white children, crouching in the snow, and a little circle of apparently not starving Indian men, sitting in the snow, all of them surrounded by hundreds of miles of trees, while Ruth spat fire. “Ruth,” said Mercy, “do you know what your name means?” “My name is Ruth.” “Your name is Mahakemo,” Mercy told her. “And it means ‘Fire Eats Her’.” Mercy began to laugh, and Joseph and Eben and Sarah laughed with her. Even Eliza looked interested, but Ruth, furious to find that the Indians were laughing at her instead of being respectful of her, began throwing things at Mercy. Mercy rolled out of range while Ruth pelted her with Joseph’s hat and Tannhahorens’s mittens and then with snowballs; finding them too soft, Ruth grabbed her Indians powder horn. Mercy jumped up and ran away from Ruth and out into the snow, and in front of her were a pair of yellow eyes. The eyes were level with Mercy’s waist. They were not human eyes. No deer for humans also meant no deer for wolves. Mercy meant to scream, but Tannhahorens got there first, in the form of a bullet. Wolf for dinner. It turned out that the English could eat anything if they were hungry enough.

I have vivid memories of going to Pizza Hut and enjoying a thin crust pizza and a jug of Pepsi, and, getting high stacks of buttermilk pancakes with syrup.

Q: What dinosaur loves pancakes? A: A tri-syrup-tops!

Fluffy Pancakes Makes: 12 pancakes Ingredients: ●           3/4 cup blanched almond flour ●           1/4 cup coconut flour ●           1/4 Tbsp baking soda ●           1/2 tsp cream of tartar ●           1/8 tsp sea salt ●           Palm shortening ●           3 large eggs ●           1/2 cup almond milk or full fat coconut milk ●           1/8 cup coconut oil ●           1/8 cup honey or coconut crystals ●           1/2 tsp vanilla extract   Instructions: Combine together the flours, baking soda, cream of tartar, and sea salt in a bowl. In another bowl, beat the eggs, then whisk in the milk, flour mixture, oil, honey or coconut crystals, and vanilla extract. Blend until smooth. Place a cast iron skillet or griddle over medium flame and grease with palm shortening. Pour 1/4 cup of batter into the hot skillet and cook for a minute on one side, or until bubbles start to form. Turn over and cook for another minute. Cook all pancakes, then serve with honey or grade B maple syrup.

Taking me in, he sweeps his hair back revealing eyes the color of maple syrup. I have the sudden urge to eat pancakes.

She didn't know this Zak at all, and here she was, splayed against him like syrup on a pancake.

waitress came by and Reacher ordered his go-to breakfast, which was coffee plus a short stack of pancakes with eggs, bacon, and maple syrup.

Valerie, do you have a coffee?” Anders asked as he retrieved plates from the cupboard. “No. It only finished dripping just before you came in,” she answered, turning the last two pancakes. “I haven’t had a chance to grab one.” He didn’t comment, but a moment later set a fresh cup of coffee down beside her. “Thank you,” Valerie murmured and picked it up to take a tentative sip. Her eyes widened as she tasted it. “Cream and one sugar, right?” Anders asked uncertainly when he noted her expression. “Yes,” she said quietly. “It’s good. I was just surprised you remembered how I ordered it yesterday.” “I was driving. I ordered it for you,” he pointed out. “Yes, but you had to order five different coffees. I’m just surprised you remembered how I take mine.” “I made a mental note of it,” Anders said simply as he moved away. Valerie stared after him as he retrieved maple syrup for the pancakes, and ketchup for the sausages under Leigh’s instruction. He’d made a mental note of how she liked her coffee. What did that mean? Why had he gone to the trouble? For her? Did that mean he liked her? Was he interested in her?

Knocking on the door, I turned the knob then walked in. I could smell the pungent aroma of his weed and the sweet smell of pancakes and syrup as soon as I opened the front door. Now I knew this was a peaceful neighborhood because black people never left their doors unlocked.

Oh my God,” Les laughs, stabbing the pancake with her fork. “There, I killed him for you.” “You’re a monster,” Gage declares, pouring syrup. “A real fucking monster.

Tova wonders sometimes if it's better that way, to have one's tragedies clustered together, to make good use of the existing rawness. Get it over with in one shot. Tova knew there was a bottom to those depths of despair. Once your soul was soaked through with grief, any more simply ran off, overflowed, the way maple syrup on Saturday-morning pancakes always cascaded onto the table whenever Erik was allowed to pour it himself.

She tastes like pancakes. Syrup and chocolate chips. And mine.

Tova wonders sometimes if it's better that way, to have one's tragedies clustered together, to make good use of the existing rawness. Get it over with in one shot. Tova knew there was a bottom to those depths of despair. Once your soul was soaked through with grief, any more simply ran off, overflowed, the way maple syrup on Saturday morning pancakes always cascaded onto the table.

Percy was eating a huge stack of blue pancakes (what was his deal with blue food?) while Annabeth chided him for pouring on too much syrup. ‘You’re drowning them!’ she complained. ‘Hey, I’m a Poseidon kid,’ he said. ‘I can’t drown. And neither can my pancakes.

The big ball of yellow might be spilling into the clouds, runny and yolky and blurring into the bluest sky, bright with cold hope and false promises about fond memories, real families, hearty breakfasts, stacks of pancakes drizzled in maple syrup sitting on a plate in a world that doesn't exist anymore.

Tova wonders sometimes if it’s better that way, to have one’s tragedies clustered together, to make good use of the existing rawness. Get it over with in one shot. Tova knew there was a bottom to those depths of despair. Once your soul was soaked through with grief, any more simply ran off, overflowed, the way maple syrup on Saturday-morning pancakes always cascaded onto the table whenever Erik was allowed to pour it himself.

LUMMUR (ICELANDIC PANCAKES) Rice pudding leftovers, (approximately 2 cups), 1 cup of flour, 2 eggs, ½ teaspoon of salt, ½ teaspoon of baking soda, 1 tablespoon of brown sugar, 1½ cups of milk, frying butter. Mix everything together in a bowl, adding the milk last. Melt butter in a pan. A four-year-old can make lummur with very little assistance when he/she is, for example, recovering from being drenched in a puddle. Place your assistant on a safe stool by the stove, tie an apron around him and allow him to place the floating dough on the hot pan with a small ladle. If you hold the handle of the pan for the child and make sure he/she doesn’t burn him/herself, the child can easily flip the pancakes with a spatula and then fish them out when they have been browned and place them on a plate. Allow the child to sugar the lummur. Lummur can also be eaten with syrup or jam. It is a good idea to make lummur and hot chocolate while the child’s boots are drying by the oven.

The big ball of yellow might be spilling into the clouds, runny and yolky and blurring into the bluest sky, bright with cold hope and false promises about fond memories, real families, hearty breakfasts, stacks of pancakes drizzled in maple syrup sitting on a plate in a world that doesn’t exist anymore.

Knock knock! Who’s there? Mabel! Mabel who? You can have Mabel syrup on your pancakes!

But we're going to make the lightest, fluffiest pancakes, and if we don't have any fruit syrup today, then we'll just use good old maple syrup." "Go for Grade A dark amber," said Oliver. "It's rich and velvety." "And very good for dipping apples in," Troy said, pointing to his FarmFresh shirt. Gus handed Carmen some eggs. "Separate those out," she told her, "because when I make pancakes, I always fluff the whites separately. Then I fold them in when the batter is mixed..." "And that's how you keep them high and light," said Carmen.

Q: What dinosaur loves pancakes? A: A tri-syrup-tops!

He began to eat, only half-distracted by Agnes's food this time- the ham crisp and sweet, the cakes thick and light, studded with pecans, the syrup falling in ropes to mix with the melting butter

The file began with the principal muttering what sounded like nonsense. “Stupid hedgehogs!” he yelled. “Stop stealing my flapjacks!” I looked to Zoe, intrigued. “Is this some sort of top secret code?” “No,” Zoe replied. “It’s about the game he’s playing on his phone.” “It’s called Flapjack Frenzy,” Warren explained. “You try to make as many pancakes as possible and these hedgehogs try to steal them. So you have to fight them off by shooting them with maple syrup. . . .” “The rules of the game really aren’t important right now,” Zoe told him. Warren frowned sullenly. On the recording, the principal’s phone rang. He let it ring ten more times while he apparently tried to finish the level of the game, before finally giving in and answering. “This is the principal,” he said curtly. “This had better be important. I’m in the midst of something very serious.” Then he gasped in surprise and asked, “SPYDER? Really? How do you know?” This was followed by a period during which the principal was obviously listening to a lot of information that the person on the other end of the phone line was giving him. For the most part, it seemed he was trying to sound interested, saying things like “Hmmm” and “Fascinating” and “Wow,” although I could also hear the distinct sounds of the game continuing: tinny music punctuated by the occasional squelch of maple syrup and squeal of pixelated hedgehogs. Suddenly, the principal said, “No, I’m not playing a game on my phone! I’m listening to you!” And then the tinny music shut off.

But the last thing I want is to contain my syrup! Be free syrup! Roam the pancakes as you will!

big tomcat marking his territory. “It’s Sunday,” I tell him, lowering my hand when he opens his eyes. “So yes, I’m not going anywhere. What’s for breakfast?” He grins and steps back, releasing me. “Ricotta pancakes. You hungry?” “I could definitely eat,” I admit, and watch his metallic eyes brighten with pleasure. I sit down as he grabs plates for both of us and sets them on the table. Though he only came back for me last Tuesday, he’s already completely at home in my tiny kitchen, his movements as smooth and confident as if he’s been living here for months. Watching him, I again get the unsettling sensation that a dangerous predator has invaded my small apartment. Partially, it’s his size—he’s at least a head taller than I am, his shoulders impossibly broad, his elite soldier’s body packed with hard muscle. But it’s also something about him, something more than the tattoos that decorate his left arm or the faint scar that bisects his eyebrow. It’s something intrinsic, a kind of ruthlessness that’s there even when he smiles. “How are you feeling, ptichka?” he asks, joining me at the table, and I look down at my plate, knowing why he’s concerned. “Fine.” I don’t want to think about yesterday, about how Agent Ryson’s visit had literally made me sick. I’d already been anxious about the wedding, but it wasn’t until the FBI agent slapped me in the face with Peter’s crimes that I lost the contents of my stomach—and nearly stood Peter up. “No ill effects from last night?” he clarifies, and I look up, my face heating as I realize he’s referring to our sex life. “No.” My voice is choked. “I’m fine.” “Good,” he murmurs, his gaze hot and dark, and I hide my intensifying blush by reaching for a ricotta pancake. “Here, my love.” He expertly plates two pancakes for me and pushes a bottle of maple syrup my way. “Do you want anything else? Maybe some fruit?” “Sure,” I say and watch as he walks over to the fridge to take out and wash some berries. My domesticated assassin. Is this what our life

Consume rarely or never Wheat products—wheat-based breads, pasta, noodles, cookies, cakes, pies, cupcakes, breakfast cereals, pancakes, waffles, pita, couscous; rye, bulgur, triticale, kamut, barley Unhealthy oils—fried, hydrogenated, polyunsaturated (especially corn, sunflower, safflower, grapeseed, cottonseed, soybean) Gluten-free foods—specifically those made with cornstarch, rice starch, potato starch, or tapioca starch Dried fruit—figs, dates, prunes, raisins, cranberries Fried foods Sugary snacks—candies, ice cream, sherbet, fruit roll-ups, craisins, energy bars Sugary fructose-rich sweeteners—agave syrup or nectar, honey, maple syrup, high-fructose corn syrup, sucrose Sugary condiments—jellies, jams, preserves, ketchup (if contains sucrose or high-fructose corn syrup), chutney

When I was growing up, the taste of pancakes meant the kind that my great-uncle made for me from Bisquick. If condensed cream of mushroom soup was the Great Assimilator, then this "instant" baking mix was the American Dream. With it, we could do anything. Biscuits, waffles, coffee cakes, muffins, dumplings, and the list continues to grow even now in a brightly lit test kitchen full of optimism. My great-uncle used Bisquick for only one purpose, which was to make pancakes, but he liked knowing that the possibilities, the sweet and the savory, were all in that cheery yellow box. Baby Harper wasn't a fat man, but he ate like a fat man. His idea of an afternoon snack was a stack of pancakes, piled three high. After dancing together, Baby Harper and I would go into his kitchen, where he would make the dream happen. He ate his pancakes with butter and Log Cabin syrup, and I ate my one pancake plain, each bite a fluffy amalgam of dried milk and vanillin. A chemical stand-in for vanilla extract, vanillin was the cheap perfume of all the instant, industrialized baked goods of my childhood. I recognized its signature note in all the cookies that DeAnne brought home from the supermarket: Nilla Wafers, Chips Ahoy!, Lorna Doones. I loved them all. They belonged, it seemed to me, to the same family, baked by the same faceless mother or grandmother in the back of our local Piggly Wiggly supermarket. The first time that I tasted pancakes made from scratch was in 1990, when Leo, a.k.a. the parsnip, made them for me. We had just begun dating, and homemade pancakes was the ace up his sleeve. He shook buttermilk. He melted butter. He grated lemon zest. There was even a spoonful of pure vanilla extract. I couldn't bring myself to call what he made for us "pancakes." There were no similarities between those delicate disks and what my great-uncle and I had shared so often in the middle of the afternoon.

Delicious aromas wafted in from the kitchen. Eggs, Father Cousineau was quite certain, and unless he was mistaken, fresh bread, baked beans, cretons, some kind of pork glistening with fat, and a full and generous teapot were standing by. The American girl was at work. He noted happily that everyone in the Lamontagne family appeared to have gained weight, even though Lent had just ended. Well-rounded cheeks, tight clothes, generous bosoms... Old Ma Madeleine's sons and daughters had spent an anti-Lent to which the American cook's arrival was surely no stranger. The breakfast table had not yet been cleared when Madeleine the American asked the priest to take a seat. "Please, Father..." She disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a plate piled high with pancakes, eggs, and slices of ham. All swimming in a half-inch of maple syrup.

They say blood is thicker than water, but I read somewhere once that maple syrup is thicker than blood. Therefore, pancakes are more important than family.

Everyone knows that pancakes are just the vessel for syrup consumption.

I shove the pancake syrup in front of Ronan. He pauses, shoving his face full and staring at me. “It’s eggs.” “It’s for your sausage.” I give him a wink. It takes Ronan a second, and then his cheeks go red. Even his eyebrows get a little pink, and he mutters, “Fuck off.

Blueberry pancakes, thick and fluffy, laced with imitation vanilla extract, the fruit hot and bursting, fresh off a griddle. Thick slabs of salted butter melting over the top. Syrup, maple, soaking the bottom. A swirl of whipped cream.

The world might be sunny-side up today. The big ball of yellow might be spilling into the clouds, runny and yolky and blurring into the bluest sky, bright with cold hope and false promises about fond memories, real families, hearty breakfasts, stacks of pancakes drizzled in maple syrup sitting on a plate in a world that doesn’t exist anymore.

Email: fundsreclaimercompany@ z o h o m a i l . c o m WhatsApp:+1 (361) 2 5 0- 4 1 1 0 Here's the scene: I'm cooking pancakes for my three kids, feeling like a breakfast hero, when my youngest kid launches syrup around the kitchen like a grenade. In my frantic attempt to move my laptop, which holds $480,000 worth of Bitcoin, to safety, I knock it straight into the sink. The noise of water and electronics mixing is louder than the laughter of my children. There's a slight smell of burned circuits in the air. Panic washes over me faster than syrup on the counter. My digital savings, my kids' future safety nets, are drowning beneath soap bubbles. Despair hit harder than a toddler tantrum. I imagined tuition bills piling up like dirty dishes. My heart was racing. All the savings plans that I had built were now dissolving in dishwater. I knew exactly how much Bitcoin was on that laptop. I also knew exactly how little I knew about getting it back. That evening, googling between sobs and half-eaten pancakes, I stumbled upon a parenting blog. In between advice for getting crayon off walls and surviving teething, a mom had casually mentioned FUNDS RECLIAMER COMPANY after her toddler had flushed her crypto wallet down the toilet. Her story was oddly comforting, because her Bitcoin was recovered. Maybe mine could be too. Having nothing to lose but hope, I called them. Their technicians behaved like old paramedics to a kitchen disaster. No questions, just action. They treated my drowned laptop with the finesse of a delicate organ transplant. I received daily progress reports written so clearly even sleep-deprived parents could understand. They interpreted the drowned hardware with the expertise of surgeons and the patience of preschool teachers. Ten days went by, and then came the email: Recovered. My wallet, risen from the dead. $480,000 back in my hands. I nearly dropped the spatula. "We can have pancakes forever!" I shouted. The kids cheered, thinking it was about syrup. They had no clue that I'd just funded their college, their future, and a lifetime supply of maple awesomeness. Now my laptop is kept away from the sink, and FUNDS RECLIAMER COMPANY is on my personal Mount Rushmore of heroes. They didn't just recover my Bitcoin; they recovered my peace of mind, and proved that even in syrup war anarchy, there are digital lifeguards out there waiting to save you.