I was having buttered toast today (delicious). Yes, I mean toast. But at some point in my life, I imagine having this conversation with someone else:
Me: “Yeah, the diner served some really good stuff. I got the regular buttermilk pancakes, drowned them in butter, and started digging in when I realized—“
???: “You mean you drowned them in syrup?”
Me: “No, I drowned them in butter. Rich, yellow slabs dumped onto the steaming surface. Sizzles, bubbles of fat! Once I put the knife to spread it around, the golden icebergs slipped away so easily that friction could have just as well been nonexistent, leaving behind a trail of hot liquid. More slabs! In less than a minute, I’d used up all the butter in the container, and the pancakes were quite literally drowning.”
???: “…okay?”
Me: “And the taste! Oh, slice of heaven. Pancakes of heaven! The warm, comforting sponges of the pancakes were slathered and wrapped with the rich, oily, soothing blankets of happiness. God, I could have died right there with no regrets. Pancakes with butter, nay, butter with pancakes; what a way to die!”