Waffles

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?

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4 responses to “Waffles

  1. I think matzoh ball soup is my madeleine. Or maybe it’s the madeleine I want my kids to have?

    Regardless, it’s one of the few things my Mom taught me to cook, and I also remember it being the one traditional food I would eat during family Passovers, barring the matzoh itself (children were allowed butter, because we were all obviously relaxed reformed like whoa even to have our gentile branch of the family host ).

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