drunk french toast: vanilla anonymous

Addictions are usually secretive, quiet issues of denial. In my case, it is quite the opposite- a blatant, loud, blusterous announcement: an attack, if you will, upon the doomed many that cross my path in the kitchen. I am out. I am open. I am proud. And yes, I am addicted to vanilla.There are many things that feed my addiction. To begin with, there is the packaging which offers a dizzying array of sizes, from mega-sized containers of pure vanilla gloating proudly from the aisles at suburban superstores to the tiny apothecary-looking glass bottles whose subtle clinking sound as it taps against my mixing bowl brings me back to an unknown era where everyone knew each other’s names and 24/7 was only a tasteless joke on the concept of time and leisure. Then, of course, there is the revered source of this delectable liquid: the orchid, whose perfect beauty, elegance, and sensuality only merits such culinary exquisiteness that would have anyone completely and forever infatuated.Still, my true obsession is rooted beyond these things. Growing up as a child in Venezuela, true, pure vanilla extract was unheard of. My mother, being of good Pennsylvania stock, always prepared and planned ahead. Therefore, on our semi-annual trips to the United States, she would diligently stock up on this culinary treasure. Little black bottles would be carefully packed amongst our new socks and underwear, where, nestled in 100% pure cotton, they would find their way safely into the tropics and then be carefully lined up in our bright blue pantry closet.Getting clearance for the vanilla seemed harder than entering the Pentagon. Mom, as loving and nurturing as she was, was unreasonably strict on the usage of this coveted liquid (making it all the more tempting and necessary for my sisters and I to have.)Still, our beloved nanny, Yolanda, always had a soft spot for our big, American blue eyes and would regularly sneak in an extra drizzle of deliciousness into our milkshakes just for the satisfaction of receiving our many, overzealous hugs.Today, living in the United States, where vanilla bottles are bountiful and available at any time of the day, I still buy four or five bottles at a go and neatly stack them in my cupboard with the same revered respect and adoration. Clearance is a bit more lax at my house than at moms, still, every drop, every memory, and every recipe, is worth gold. This is an addiction I am outrageously proud of.