Waffles are my Proust’s madeleines. There are times of year I can’t even eat them because they make me feel homesick for a home that no longer exists. But DP is a waffle fanatic, so for his birthday I bought him a waffle maker.
DP anxiously (because he does not trust me in the kitchen): Do you have waffle mix?
Indy: Withering gaze (within which a discerning partner might read “daughters of Maternal Clause do not use waffle mix”)
I pulled down my mother’s trusty Joy of Cooking circa late 1960-something (actually it might be my great aunt’s, but no one is counting [except Cougar]) and found a waffle recipe. I whisked egg whites like a 1950s housewife, folded them in, and made gorgeous waffles.
I made them again this weekend, and I wanted to call my mother in the worst way to tell her I was making waffles, and to ask her whether there really was no vanilla extract in the recipe.
I’ve been having a difficult time getting words on the page. Teaching and some connected anxiety is taking up a huge part of my psyche. Today I’m planning a lecture on creative nonfiction. You guys think I have that all down, but I am so bad with dates, numbers, and details. I know, whine, whine, whine. Get back to work. Eat your waffles. Write your damn book.
What are your madeleines?