So, dear reader, we’ve known each other for a few weeks now. And I must confess, I haven’t been completely honest with you. It’s not that I lied . I only concealed the truth. And I just can’t hold it in anymore. I am one-half French-Canadian.

That’s right, dear reader, my middle name is Beaudoin. There, I said it. And now that I have unleashed the hidden identity that has been screaming for freedom since my first words graced these pages so many weeks ago, we can move on to the cooking.

This week I attempted crepes, the classic French breakfast staple. Ana and I have had crepes in mind for a while now, but it wasn’t until late last Monday night that our hunger for really thin pancakes sparked action.

As many Guilfordians can confirm, since spring break the workload has been on steady flow. When we’re not writing papers, we’re reading essays. Add class and extra-curriculars and your schedule is just about shot. If you’re lucky you can get in a good night’s sleep every once in a while. But no one has time to procure and enjoy a crepe.

Finally, in the middle of a particularly unmotivated work session, we decided the only thing to put us in high spirits the next morning would be the meal we had beenª dreaming of. We found an easy crepes recipe on the Food Network website and, after a short-lived stand against the pressures of seniority, I was sent to Harris Teeter to get the ingredients for the morning’s breakfast.

The procedure seemed quite simple on paper. Blend a couple eggs, some flour, water, milk and the optional sweetener, then let sit for an hour. The rest was, get this, like making really thin pancakes.

Having prepared the mix the night before, all we had to do was wake up, make really thin pancakes and then eat like my ancestors. Waking Dan up was easier then I anticipated. I could tell he was dreaming about crepes all night from the smile on his sleeping face. I can’t be sure, but I think I saw rainbows in his eyes as he looked up from the bed. “That’s right Dan, crepes,” I confirmed.

A few minutes later we stood in the kitchen where, after watching me sabotage the first two crepes, Ana took up the spatula. Flipping really small pancakes is not easy, but she only needed one mistake. The next 10 minutes was like a rerun of Xena Warrior Princess. Ana kicked so much crepe ass we had to wash three large plates to hold the casualties.

The recipe was supposed to yield 17-22 crepes. She probably made 35. All Dan and I could do was step back and watch.

No, they weren’t the prettiest, roundest, most golden crepes ever. But yes, they were glorious. With weeks of anticipation leading up to the moment, I carefully sculpted the perfect first bite – a modest piece of one of the more attractive crepes, a swipe of maple syrup, a dab of peach-apricot jam and one beautiful raspberry balanced on top.

It was magnificent.

For 20 minutes all of the pressures of the week to come were lifted from our minds. We ate like French kings. We all felt better with crepes in our bellies. And, like Jesus, as soon as they had come, they were gone, to live on in our hearts forever.