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The alarm clock had barely finished its polite

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morning chime when Arthur abandoned all pretense

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of adult discipline. Today was Saturday, and the

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kitchen already hummed with a quiet, golden

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anticipation. He moved with the practiced grace of

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a man on a very specific mission,

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firing up the cast -iron skillet until it

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whispered when flicked with water.

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Ladle by ladle, the batter hit the hot

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surface, bubbling and puffing into pale, pillowy rounds

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As the stack grew, tear upon fluffy tear,

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the intoxicating aroma of toasted butter and sweet

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vanilla filled the room, chasing away the last

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remnants of the workweek's fatigue.

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Perched atop the summit of the tower was

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a square of farm -fresh butter,

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which immediately began to surrender to the heat,

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glossing the edges in a rich amber lake.

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Before the butter could slide too far, Arthur

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tipped the amber bottle of pure maple syrup.

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It descended in a mesmerizing, detailed ribbon carving

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shimmering paths down the craggy canyons

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of the cakes, pooling generously in every nook

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and cranny. To finish his edible masterpiece,

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he scattered a handful of ruby -red raspberries

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and wild blueberries across the top, their

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tart pop promising the perfect balance to the

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sugary flood. He carried the plate to the

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breakfast

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table, where the morning light streamed sideways through

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the window, catching the glossy syrup

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and making them sparkle like polished amber. Arthur

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sank into his chair, wrapped both hands

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around a steaming mug of black coffee, and

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smiled as the world outside faded away, leaving

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only the

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quiet joy of a perfect morning.