CHAOS BEFORE PREDICTABILITY

With ‘Shove Tuesday’ staring me hard in the face, I feel almost compelled to eat pancakes. This is without regard for whether I even want them. Tradition has knocked at the door and demanded I pick up the fork and get flipping. But there is one small flaw: I want waffles.

As much as I respect all forms pancakes, including crêpes and the small Scottish ones, I have to come clean and say waffles are better. My only problem is the monopoly pancakes have over this very specific Tuesday. Is there a punishment for defecting to the waffle iron? I just don’t know. What’s more, I’m not sure I want to find out.

In childhood, I remember being relatively excited about this day. Much like any small person does when they see bubbles or find a reasonably large box. However, now that I can reach the table top I feel I can make my own decision. And it doesn’t involve pancakes.

Unlike most things we’re discouraged to do as a child, where something horrendous and often involving fire will happen to you, there is little in the way of legend when it comes to Shove Tuesday. Nor does it have its Michael Myres of Jason Voorhees. So perhaps it’s perfectly acceptable to opt for an alternative.

Or maybe, just maybe, such a radical decision has never been made. Or if it has, no one has quite lived to tell the tale. So as I sit here contemplating wacking out the waffle iron (or just getting the ones you toast) I’m stuck with the very (un)real possibility that some supernatural behemoth may come to smite me.

If you don’t hear from me tomorrow, you’ll know my suspicions were true. Either that or the waffles have made my fingers too fat to type.