A few weekends ago, somewhere between the eighty-hundredth snowfall and the snow that fell several days ago (six months of winter what), I was sitting at the table sipping coffee and thinking about how the “5C and rain” forecast made me want to stay inside.
Then I looked up the actual weather on my phone. 18C, it said. 18C. I screamed (literally) and leapt across the room to wave my phone in my housemate’s face.
“Is this real?” I shrieked. “Is this real?”
It was. I immediately left my coffee half-finished on the table, pulled on a light jacket and boots, and ran outside into the sunshine where it seemed the whole of Toronto was basking in the sudden warmth of this one single day.
After ten minutes of walking through bustles of people in the nearby park, I looked down and realised that I was wearing my grey thermal underwear. Just that. Just long johns.
I’m blaming this for why I darted into the nearest grocery store and ended up with Limited Edition Birthday Cake Oreos. I’m sure you would have done the same.
Can I ask you North Americans something? What, pray tell, is “birthday cake flavour”? To me, birthday cake is any cake that is made for a birthday. How can that be one flavour?
From my dedicated efforts at deduction (looking and eating), all I can surmise is that “birthday cake” means sprinkles and a taste like straight sugar on steroids punched in the face by vanilla frosting on steroids.
Can I ask you North Americans something? What, pray tell, is “ranch flavour”? To me, a ranch is a place where cattle and horses are bred. Why would you want a chip that tastes of dirt, animal sweat, manure, and grass?
Oh light and crispy
Salt and sweety
You I will eaty.