Smokey the Magnificent

Yes, the poor sickly wee infant is hale and hearty once more. She is sitting on my knee with a bobbin in one hand and a chapatti in the other, eating both.

Today is the inaugural meeting of my singing group! V exciting. We will wow the world.

You know what’s marvellous? Maple syrup. It seems that something so delicious ought by rights to be made from the pineal glands of endangered veal, but isn’t; it’s made from the boiled down sap of the maple tree. And in case you’re thinking “Duh”, well, you’re clearly a sheltered wee beast protected by Styrofoam pellets from the harsh realities of this world. (Except for Mother; Styrofoam pellets give her the shrieking feebles. We all have our little ways.)

I used to work at an ice cream shop, you see. Not a bad place to work, all things considered; I think I laid down enough calcium to protect me from osteoporosis for the next fifteen pregnancies, and the impressively unflattering qualities of the uniform assured me that Helpdesk Man’s interest in myself was the Real Deal and not some shallow attraction based on the hope that I had shapely knees.

The staff were an interesting bunch. One particular wench, who I will call Tiffanee, greeted life with wide-eyed wonder. Just how wide-eyed I did not realise until one afternoon, when I was scooping myself out some vanilla icecream for lunch.

“Why do you get vanilla? It’s boring,” quoth Tiffanee.

“Not our vanilla,” I said with a disturbing flash of company spirit. “Haven’t you tried it? It’s got real vanilla beans in it.”

“Vanilla what?” saidTiffanee, goggling.

Further investigation revealed that Tiffanee had hitherto spent her life thinking “vanilla” was a synonym for “plain”. I spent some time explaining about pods and alcohol, seeds and extract, the divinity that is real vanilla essence and the devilish impostership of vanillin, which is a byproduct of the paper industry and not worth for your biscuits to wipe their boots on; nor did I fail to touch on the vanilla/Coke conspiracy, nor the method for making vanilla sugar out of used pods. Tiffanee was suitably impressed.

As she began to edge towards the door, I said in a light and joking fashion

“You do know where maple syrup comes from, right?”

“No?” said Tiffanee, her eyes widening again in hopes of some fresh wonder.

I explained, but I don’t think she believed me.

Anyway, this is all but a prelude to the conundrum:

Would you rather have a lifetime supply of maple syrup, or the ability to communicate with geese?