When my former employer Rebecca and her gay husband Jimmy promised another buttery breakfast, they meant business.

As I learned in the Dutch babies episode, Jimmy fears no fat. He is a firm believer in butter, cream, and all things buttercreamy, and his waffles are no exception. Not content to settle for a normal version, he makes a shortbread waffle that is, as one might expect, heavy on the butter. In fact, the batter is rich and thick enough to be dolloped onto the waffle iron with an ice cream scoop, awe-inspiring in a way that’s both very beautiful and completely terrifying.

Rebecca’s straight husband—and comic straight man—John nearly hyperventilated at the sight. Jimmy closed the lid of the iron with cool confidence. Rebecca sipped her orange juice nonchalantly and toyed with a plate of bacon. The whole spectacle sent me into a cold sweat, some sort of strange and dreadful anticipation.

“Jimmy, what kind of syrup do you use on your waffles?” I asked by way of distraction.

“Oh, you know—just the regular pancake syrup. That’s what Rebecca likes,” he replied .

“I’m surprised you’re not a 100%-maple guy,” I said.

“That’s not nearly enough sugar, Little Bird!”* Rebecca interjected; “I need more! I’ve got to have my sugar!”

“Rebecca, maple syrup is sugar,” I reminded her, but it was a wasted effort. She's very serious about these things. When Jimmy makes waffles, Rebecca gets an entire pitcher of syrup all to herself. There’s already a cup of sugar in the batter, but that’s far from sufficient. We’re dealing here with a very unconventional woman, and her sugar needs are only appropriate—wildly immoderate, fantastically indecent, and very, very serious.

Behold, as meager illustration, her plate of waffles, and please keep in mind that this was only the first syrup pour. There would be others to follow, as well as another swipe or two of butter. In the background is her (sizable) syrup pitcher, which of course had to be emptied. If you look closely, you’ll note that each well of the waffle—itself a matrix of sugar and sugar—was swollen with syrup, barely able to hold itself together. I believe that what I witnessed was a sort of violence. A very tasty violence .

Meanwhile, over on my plate, there was less syrup—truth be told, I’m a maple snob—but a similar enthusiasm. The waffles were rich and sweet, with the tight, buttery crumb and snap of a shortbread cookie. In fact, though I’m not usually one to delay gratification, I’d be tempted to save them for dessert, with warm maple syrup and a creamy, melting scoop of good vanilla ice cream.

But then again, saving sugar for dessert would be so conventional .