people have the audacity to equate vanilla with “plain”. the fruit of a delicate orchid pollinated by hand. worth its weight in solid gold and beyond. the fussy black-and-cream jewel of the american continent. you sick son of a
bitch. imagine a world without vanilla. no blondies. no pound cakes. no crème brûlée, no
coke floats. no cream soda. no satiny
new york-style cheesecakes. no warm apple
pie à la mode. no velvety complexity to bring out complex notes in chocolate desserts. no depth of flavour in your cakes and cookies and milkshakes. all in just a few precious seeds or grams of paste or perfumed teaspoons of liquid black platinum. what you don’
t understand could fill the library of alexandria seven times over and then some. you ungrateful bastard i’m going to kill you