I was just another sweet-toothed eleven year old looking for any excuse to connect with waffles. The pattern alone fed a dopamine-driven pleasure surge. I wore “waffle stompers” on my feet and would walk along white ribbons of snow tire-stamped waffles, fascinated by the endless pattern that textured our street in the winter.
We had an old Knapp Monarch waffle iron in our kitchen. It was a chrome beauty that pressed out four square waffles at a time in its iron grids. My mom held the key to its magic – crispy, delicious golden beauties which, upon landing on my plate, would immediately be floated in a sea of maple syrup. I can still hear the parental scolding as the exuberance of my long syrup pour dripped over the edge of my plate onto the table.
Their anniversary fell on a Sunday that year, which was perfect for the gift I was about to create for them… and of course for myself. I would hit the learning curve and create an incredible waffle breakfast. I sneaked quietly downstairs in my pajamas before the sun was up, found the recipe in my mom’s cookbook, and clambered up onto the counter. Reaching past the illegal Oreo’s my parents thought I didn’t know about, I foraged the ingredients required. I’m quite certain I grabbed a cookie on the way down.
I mixed the ingredients well, poured them onto the preheated metal grids, and closed the lid. Then I ran upstairs giddy with the surprise that would delight my parents. Bubbling like a soda pop, I trampolined up and down on the foot of my parent’s bed.
“Waffles!” I exclaimed.
The immediate response from my dad was not what I had expected.
“What’s that burning smell?”
My effervescence slowed as they threw off the covers and bolted out the door. I could barely keep up with them in their scurry down the stairs, holding onto the thin hope that they were simply that excited about waffles. But the smokey white fog at the base of the stairs spoke a different truth. And that smoke trail led right to the Knapp Monarch waffle iron.
Ultimately, it took me and my mom holding down each side of the waffle iron while my dad hit the bottom of the lid several times with a hammer to open it. When the lid finally popped up, charcoal-black, extra crispy waffles entirely unfit for human consumption were more than ready for us. Satisfied that I did not burn the house down for their anniversary, my mom finally gave me a smile and shared one of her secrets to perfect, non-emergency waffles: a spray can of cooking oil called PAM.
The subsequent batches that morning were as perfectly tasty as they were forgettable. The first jet black batch ended up in the trash, but not before they managed to sear their way from the waffle iron into my brain. Forever. Perfectly baked food is certainly nice, but is not requisite to baking perfect memories.
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Photo: iStock