It came from the waffle iron…

The fog settled upon the lake, blanketing the sleepy mountain town in a haze of vanilla and bergamot. The sun was high, yet its warm glow held no chance against the spreading warmth of the Waterton Fog.

It gripped you. Surrounded you in its embrace. Sinister and comforting all at once.

A Waterton Fog

Probably the best London Fog I’ve ever had. Handcrafted from real vanilla and an Earl Grey with the perfect amount of bergamot.

The placid waters of the lake began to stir, pregnant with threat. This was no wind, though the valley was prone to gusts - no, this was something else. Something far more powerful. Far more ancient. Ripples began to spread and grow. Birds took flight to escape, and fish jumped to escape what was coming.

A golden edge, crispy and perfect, pierced the deep blue waters. A new mountain, rising to join the surrounding Rockies, but it was not like the others. It was thin, pock-marked, and of soft dough made. A glorious disk, unthinkable in proportion, disturbing in its perfection.

It took position, hovering above the land, casting a shadow upon the land.

It stole the sun’s power, emitting a blinding light of its own as it lorded over the lake.

It was covered in a generous helping of whipped cream and berries.

I was terrified and in awe. What’s more, I was excited, and succumbed to a devoted worship of the beast. I let it in. I felt it fill me. And then, as quickly as it had come, it was gone. But I knew that it was still with me - it was apart of me now. Fueling me with a religious fervour. It was at that moment that I knew the truth. Ancient. Primordial. Undeniable.

I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that I would return to Waffleton’s.