Few things motivate me to drive hundreds of miles into the wilderness. One is a lost puppy. The other–pancakes. But not just any pancakes–these pancakes were legend.  These pancakes had back story. These pancakes would make Joseph Campbell blush.

It began with the forging of the great pancakes. Three were given to the Elves, immortal, wisest and fairest of all beings. Seven to the Dwarf lords, great miners and craftsmen of pancakes. And nine, nine pancakes were gifted to the race of Men, who above all else, desire pancakes. For within these pancakes was bound the strength and will to govern each pancake. But they were all of them deceived, for another pancake was made. In the land of Vermont, in the fires of Mount Doom, the Dark Lord Sauron forged in secret a master pancake, to control all others. And into this pancake, he poured his flour, his milk, and his will to dominate all life.

That was exactly what I was thinking of when I consumed these pancakes. Topped, injected, and gently massaged with Vermont syrup, these pancakes were truly delicious. Worth the trip? Doubtful. Unfortunately for the state of Vermont, the syrup gets no better the closer you get to it. Sure, it was good. But was it five-hours-of-driving good? Probably not. I’d settle for an Elven pancake rather than the one pancake to rule them all, and probably wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference. Pancake shapes would have also been appreciated. The State of Vermont gets a 5/10–points for effort but lacking originality, and probably not worth the gas money.