I just walked through a wave of butterscotch and was immediately yanked back to winter at our Will Scarlet Road house where my Mom sliced seven layer cookie bars into Christmas tins for freezing, warm butter clumped with coconut, warm house, warm walls, where late at night I snuck frozen pieces out of the tins tucked into the freezer part of the fridge in the garage, snuck back into warm house, warmer walls, and now I have a violent need go home and make them, by which I mean Practice my Religion of Choice.