Waffles

There’s no school today. The kids play for a bit then amble down the stairs. Too reflexively Bud pops in a DVD and asks two questions: “Can we watch something?” and “What”s for breakfast?”

To the first I reply, “Isn’t that a question you should ask before you put a DVD in?” There’s no answer. I’m not concerned. This should be a lazy day. Beginning it with a discussion as to whether the TV should be on or not will change that pretty quick. It’s easier to call out a turn-off time after breakfast.

That leaves the second question. Of course they haven’t eaten. So what to make? What is there in the house? I quickly realize that there can only be one thing for breakfast this morning. Both because it befits a breakfast on the morning of our anniversary and because I know the ingredients are likely present. The qualifier owes to our separation. I really don’t know what’s in the cupboards. So . . . I’m making waffles. My first ever.

While Sweets is a cereal girl and Bud a hot breakfast boy, they find common ground in their love of waffles. Waffles are a food that has never been part of my life. The kids mom loves waffles and makes them two to three times a week. Before the kids, she’d make them for herself. I wouldn’t eat them.

It’s not that waffles were unknown to me. My Dad eats the frozen waffles you throw in the toaster. It’s something he discovered after I’d left for college. I watched all the “Let go of my Eggo” commercials too. They didn’t work. The only way I will eat a frozen waffle is if there is nothing else available and they’re soaked in enough syrup that they become a sponge for it.
Instead, I’ve always been a cereal guy. Sunday mornings are the exception where omelets, french toast or pancakes are the order of the day.

Still, after years in their presence I’ve come to like them. They’re part of my picture of being home. I’m still not sure I like the flavor of waffles themselves. There’s a blandness to them that I can’t get past.

The texture of the waffles is another story. Deep crispy ridges protecting delicate pillowed interiors. Warm pockets holding fresh fruit, any one containing more jam than you’d ever consider spreading across a slice of toast. Oh, yes. Waffles are an amazing comfort food.

And these? They pass muster.
“These are good, can I have more?” says Bud.
Sweets adds the right qualifier,
“Good, but not as good as mama’s.”

I’m thankful for the grace of the morning and the grace of the day. And of this day fifteen years ago. Home remains the same, even as it is different than it’s ever been.

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