Confusion has arisen from the household habits of my newest roommate, “Jeff.” I don’t mind the incessant sleepwalking, the unbridled flatulence, the endorsement of conspiracy theories, or even the shameless enjoyment of Ted Lasso, but I draw the line at refrigerating maple syrup. 

It’s fine, I guess. It’s just like, where did he learn to do such a thing? Did he come from a long line of syrup-refrigerators, who disliked the simple pleasure of warm syrup running over their pancakes? I’ve been trying to play it off like I didn’t notice. But I did notice. Frankly, how could I not notice? It’s like a big ‘Fuck You’ to everything I stand for. 

Trust me. I KNOW syrup. Every waking minute of my life, I carry a faded Polaroid of me with the notoriously warm tabletop syrups at IHOP. This was taken on my spring break trip to Bangkok, Thailand, where I went alone. I carry maple syrup in a flask in my coat pocket for sap’s sake, which is why ladies famously say my breath is ‘vaguely Canadian.’ 

I denounce the fools in Big Fridge propping up their pro-coolant agenda. When you go to the supermarket, which aisle do you find syrup in? Newsflash, asshole, NOT the fridge! Not even in like, the aisle across from the fridge, which is still kind of cold so you don’t know like, ‘should I put my jacket on?’ Regardless, I’m trying not to let this affect our friendship. I’ve been attending anger management on nights and weekends. I padlocked a cabinet with my personal bottle of syrup inside. The password is “2-1-9,” the optimal Fahrenheit cooking temperature of maple syrup. I’m just trying to be cordial.

And you’ll never believe what Jeff said – this is verbatim:  

“So that warm-syruped dickhead had the nerve to go to the press?” He muttered while chain-smoking in a dark room alone. “That fucking pretentious snake thinks he’s the only one who knows syrups. Trust me, I KNOW syrups. My father lived and breathed syrup in the icy mountains of Quebec. His father came to the area in the 1940 ‘Brown Rush’ hoping to strike syrup from the sappiest maples in the deciduous forest. His father studied syrup at the Sorbonne, that’s right, the founder of the L’Institut D’Sirop. His tombstone read ‘best enjoyed cold; cause of death: syrup.’ I’m in the first Berkeley ‘Syrup Scholars Program’ cohort. So yeah, Calvin can choke on his disgusting warm syrup.” 

He said that to me at a dinner (breakfast for dinner of course). We promised each other no politics at the table! I don’t really know how we can move forward from this, but I will not have my honor besmirched by some common ice-dwelling fridgeboy.  

Please respect our privacy in these trying times. 

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