I did it. I finally ate chicken and waffles.

And I need to talk about it, because what I experienced was not just a meal—it was a maple syrup hate crime.

Let me break this down for my fellow Canadians. Chicken and waffles is an American dish where they take a big, fluffy waffle—already loaded with butter—and drop a hunk of deep-fried chicken on top. Bone-in, bone-out, doesn’t matter. Then, as if that weren’t chaotic enough, they drown the whole thing in maple syrup. Sometimes—not always, but often enough to be a pattern—they mix in hot sauce, like Frank’s or Louisiana Red Hot, right into the syrup.

Hot sauce. In maple syrup. And then they pour it on chicken. And act like this is completely fine.

I don’t know how to process that. I grew up treating maple syrup with reverence. We tap it from sacred trees. We serve it in little ceramic pitchers. We don’t mix it with hot sauce and use it as a marinade for poultry. What am I, a monster?

And yet—I ate it.

First bite: okay, this is wrong. The flavors don’t belong together. The chicken is hot and salty and crunchy, and the waffle is soft and sweet and buttery, and then there’s this weird, sweet heat from the maple-hot-sauce concoction that feels like my mouth just got hijacked by a NASCAR driver.

Second bite: still wrong. But in a… compelling way?

Third bite: oh no.

It’s happening. I’m enjoying it. I’m complicit now. The syrup drips down the side of the chicken, mixing with grease like it’s auditioning for a Food Network segment called “Deep South Degeneracy.” And I can’t stop. It’s like brunch and dinner got drunk and started making out on my plate.

I’m not proud of this. I feel like I’ve betrayed my nation. Somewhere, a Mountie is weeping. But I’ll be honest: it was delicious. Infuriatingly, offensively delicious.

Still, I want it on the record: syrup goes on pancakes. Not chicken. Not ever. Whatever that was, it wasn’t breakfast. It was a maple-fried identity crisis.

Final score: 8.5/10. I’ll never be clean again.