Wafflewich

Photo by Dan Whipps

Story from another life. I remember it, but I can’t feel it in my bones anymore.

My boyfriend was sitting at the breakfast table, coffee cup raised and wide-eyed as I snatched the hot waffle iron – waffle baking inside, snapped the plug out of the outlet and slid the whole mess into a doubled paper grocery bag. Swinging the front door open wide I marched down the apartment building hall to the trash shoot. Wham! went the iron into the shoot. Swoosh~ went the bag as it slid into the dark. As the shoot’s maw creaked shut I brushed off my hands and sighed.

Final episode of the sticking waffle battle. Waffle iron 1, Lisa 0.

I now know better. Cold batter + hot iron = permanently affixed waffle. Scrape, scrape, scrape with a table knife.

Anyway, I purchased a non-stick iron shortly thereafter and began life anew. The boyfriend knew what he was getting into, I would say, and he stuck around. Tiger by a tale, I was called, and so obviously so. No apologies for natural disposition.

That was 20 years and a few crispy waffles ago. Now I have bigger waffles to fry and can’t go to battle with appliances. We have more than one waffle iron model – the Flip ‘n Fluff, whose sobriquet is The Flippin Fluff if it misbehaves,and a Waffle Stick Maker, the better for dipping, my dear. The nice people at Hamilton Beach gave them to me.