Wish List, Item 2: A Bigger Magic Wand

I learn stuff from Waffle Guy all the time. This is because he knows a lot about a lot of things.

Before I met him, for example, I didn't know what the greater omentum was. I didn't know that a Gibson J-45 is my favorite-sounding acoustic guitar. I didn't know what it was like to drink a Bitburger in Bitburg. And I had no idea whatsoever that the maitre d' at Sanctuary is one of my favorite strangers in Minneapolis. 

I learned all of these things because Waffle Guy is extraordinarily generous in spirit. He shares all the time, with all kinds of people. He shares what he knows, what he has, what he does. Because of his unwavering propensity to give, I can see possibilities I'd never imagined before. I see the world from a different place, now that I know him. I couldn't be luckier. 

Sometimes,  I'm reminded again of this wonderful aspect of his personality. For example, the other day I was struggling with some stuff that life has thrown my way in the past few weeks. I felt disheartened and icky and sad, and I told Waffle Guy that I just wanted to do something that would make me feel like I was spending my time on something good. I asked him what he thought about "adopting a family" for the holidays. 

Of course, Waffle Guy agreed, and so we got in touch with an incredible organization called People Serving People.  They run a large shelter that provides transitional housing for children and their families who would otherwise be sleeping on the streets. The shelter provides a safe, sober environment in which families are able to rebuild lives that have been interrupted by any number of terrible, traumatic events. 

People Serving People actually sent me a list of families from which we could choose. It was gut-wrenching to pick just a family, and so I asked my daughters for their input. They decided that they'd like to help kids their own ages, and so they selected a family comprised of a 29-year-old mother and her three young children. I'm elated. 

It's like I've been given a magic wand, and I can wave it, and for just a few minutes life might feel better for someone. I have the first names and ages of the family members on a sheet of paper in my pocket, and I've been thinking hard about what to give to them. 

I've also been thinking hard about the other families on the list. 

One, in particular, stood out. A 43-year-old woman has two teenaged sons and a pre-teen daughter. I wonder if it's harder for teenaged kids to adapt to life in a shelter than for younger children, who so readily roll with the punches. I wonder if we picked right. 

I don't know anything about this family except for their first names and ages, and that they're homeless. But I can't stop thinking about those kids. It's hard enough to be a teenager. They're forever comparing themselves to everyone else. Other kids can be mean. Under the best of circumstances, it's so hard to feel like you measure up. Can you imagine what it would feel like to navigate that, without even a home in which to find sanctuary? 

I've thought about it, and decided I want to try an experiment. It's risky, because it will either reinforce or dent my faith in humanity, but I want to give it a whirl. 

I want to use my social network to adopt that family. If you live in the Twin Cities, and you're in my online sphere, and it seems like it would feel good to you, would you commit to purchasing one gift for either a teenaged boy or an 11-year-old girl? 

I'd love nothing more than to send an email to People Serving People to tell them that a few more kids might feel the warmth of possibility for a few minutes on Christmas.

What if a little collective generosity of spirit could remind these kids that one's view of the world can change? 

Email me if you're in at wafflequest2009 (at) gmail (dot) com.

No pressure, friends. Just thought I'd see anyone else wanted to make the magic wand a little bit bigger.

Love, Defined.

Atop my fiance's shoulders, the littlest Waffler explored Amsterdam from a vantage point high above the city. But it was a long day, and travelling had worn her out, and soon enough, she fell asleep. 

On his head.

Hilarious though it was, I worried that 43 pounds of limp, floppy kid might cause Waffle Guy epic chiropractic consequences. "I can carry her, if you want," I offered. "I'll help you get her down."

"It's no problem," he explained. "This way, we're moving forward, and she's getting some rest. That's about as good as it gets, isn't it?"

Maybe. But it still seemed like it might hurt, eventually. "You're going to get tired!" I insisted.

"Or I'll get stronger shoulders," he said. 

And in that moment, love made perfect sense. 

At once intricate and simple, the truth was there, as clear as water: To find it in one's self, day after day, to carry the ones who matter, and to find strength in that, is the gift of love.

Tomorrow, Bruges.

Moving Right Along

Most of the time, life strolls along at a predictable pace. You wake up, you go to work, you come home, you go to bed. Rinse, and repeat. There. I've summarized most of life, in two easy-to-read sentences.

Sometimes, though, for whatever reason, life propels itself into some kind of bizarre hyper-speed.

Waffle Guy and I went to New York this weekend to visit his Eldest, and it was a head-spinning whirlwind of a wonderful weekend. For all the amazing travel adventures the Guy has had, this was only his second time in the city--and the first time, he only stayed for 18 hours. I felt obligated to provide him with the comprehensive New York City tourist experience in a single weekend.

In less than two full days, we went to dinner with the Eldest and her BFF, walked around the Upper West Side, went to the Empire State Building in the middle of the night, explored Chelsea on foot, visited Ellis Island, bought a light meter at the Hell's Kitchen Flea Market, saw +/- 0.3% of the Met, ate at a darling little Basque joint, had brunch at an old friend's place (To be clear, he's not old. Our friendship is.), and came home. I'm so tired that every word I type looks misspelled to me.

And yet, I want more.

I wish that we had the energy to wake up every single day and sustain that level of enthusiasm and adventure, and to make the most of every minute, and to remember to appreciate the people we meet along the way.

I hope that, when it's our time to go to the Great Nuthouse in the Sky, we will leave behind a list of full-throttle adventures like this one. I hope that people will understand that this is why we go to crazy places and do crazy things and obsess about making crazy-good waffles.

Life passes by awfully fast, you see, and I can't think of anything that matters more than whirlwind weekends and the memories that they create.

Letter #2: The Waffle Guy (aka "Crush/Boyfriend")

Dear Waffle Guy, 

Once, when we were still pretty new, I had a very bad day. You listened while I babbled, and held me while I cried, and talked me through to the other side of my tears. And when it was all done, I looked at you and said, "I don't deserve you."

Do you remember what you said next? Because I'll never forget it. You said: "Love isn't something you can earn or deserve."

I looked at you, all confused, and you continued to explain, "If you could do something to earn love, then you could do something to make me stop loving you. It's not that way. I just love you."

It was the first time in my life I didn't feel like I had anything to prove, perhaps the most liberating moment I've yet experienced. You didn't want the cleaned-up, spiffy, polished version of me that I'd always tried to sell. You wanted ME. 

It was in that moment that I finally started to understand who I am. I finally stopped performing, and started living. Thank you for that.

For the record, I just love YOU, too.

New, Improved.

I am a daredevil. I will try anything once. I am fearless. I'm reasonably good at most things that I try. Above all else, I am not afraid of failure.

At least that's what I'd like you to believe. And unless you get to know me very, very well, I'll probably convince you quite thoroughly. After all, I'll gladly jump out of an airplane, or climb a very tall structure, or spelunk lava tubes. To drive the point home, I'll smile while I'm doing it.

On the surface, those things look very brave. They are not.

My Knievel-eqsue antics are merely a thinly-veiled, smoke-and-mirrors, over-hyphenated attempt to convince you that I am a woman of great valor. I am not.

Here is a list of things that scare me tremendously:

1. Snapping Turtles
2. Cottage Cheese
3. Commitment
4. Failure
5. Office Jobs
6. Misogyny 
7. Clowns (I know it's a trendy phobia. No, they don't make me scream or sweat. But if I'm walking down a sidewalk and I see a clown, I'll cross the street so I don't have to pass close by the painted freak.)
8. People who Yell
9. Waking up one morning and realizing I'm past my peak
10. June Bugs 
11. Judgment of Any Kind

There are at least 10,000 other things that render me petrified, but you get the point. I am a great big scaredy-cat and an even bigger hypocrite. I am the opposite of plucky. I just go through the motions.

I see courage everywhere, and I strive to emulate it. In one project with which I'm involved, I routinely talk to women who've survived breast cancer. Talk about ferocity. These women have been to hell and back, and they almost universally shrug off their experiences as if they were no big deal. "It was just my cross to bear," said one survivor. "Everyone has to deal with something." 

I don't know if I would be so brave.

My own daughter just finished her first triathlon at the ripe old age of nine. I sobbed as she crossed the finish line, overcome by the nerve it took for her to undertake her mission. Though she is a shy child, she worked really hard to raise nearly $500 for the Miracles of Mitch Foundation. And then she swam and biked and ran her heart out, despite the fact that the whole ordeal terrified her. If a child can have such determination, I wondered, why do I crumple so readily in the face of day-to-day life?

I've always been a little bit fragile, a little too sensitive. And so I do things that you will think are brave, like skydiving or bungee jumping or wearing a costume in public on a random Tuesday. The problem is that those things don't scare me. Not one iota. And so they're not really brave, are they?

I'll tell you what does scare me. New.

"New" is terrifying, because I am a control freak. That is why I say no to nearly everything that I can't predict. 

Sure, I'll slap on a parachute, because I can tell you exactly how it will end: Statistically speaking, I'll return to the ground. Not very scary.

But to get up in front of a group of people and sing? What if they don't like me? What if a mighty wind blows my skirt off and everyone laughs? What if I die of a heart attack caused by the anxiety induced by puking from nervousness on the stage?

I'm trying to challenge myself to break the shackles of perceived security, and so over the past few months I've made an effort to give up control and Just Say Yes.

That's why I said yes to a friend who asked me to paddle on his corporate Dragon Boat Team. I mean, it was highly possible that I'd cause the team to fail (Fear #4), thereby inciting the judgment of potentially misogynistic teammates from his office, causing them to yell at me sternly as they threw me into the waters of Lake Phalen, where my toes would be chomped off by snapping turtles (Fears # 11, 6, 5, 8 and 1). It could have been really ugly.  

Instead, it proved to be an unexpected highlight of my summer. I learned a new, somewhat useless rowing technique and obtained some righteous bruises. Best of all, on the shore my beautiful daughters watched us lose heat after heat, and they loved me anyway. Clearly worth the risk. So why did it cause me such tremendous fear? 

Or try this one on for size: Waffle Guy's youngest has an unbelievable voice. It's the sort of talent that most people never get to have. So when she asked my Guy and I if we'd sing backup vocals for an audition she wanted to go on, the logical answer was yes. But then it became clear that she wanted us to dress up in early '70s garb a la The Pips, and do Motown choreography, and do it in front of an audience with judges (Fears #11 and possibly 9), and I wanted to die every time I thought about it. 

We did it, though. And Waffle Guy and I TOTALLY blew the choreography, and we don't know yet whether we made it with her or ruined it for her. But it was absolutely hilarious in a way I never could have predicted. If I'm really honest, I'm strangely glad we did it. 

A childhood friend and fellow blogger recently drew my attention to a Huffington Post article talking about perceived happiness, specifically referring to parenthood. The article set every little synapse in my brain to life. Parents, the piece contends, are simply too busy to recognize what makes them happy until they stop to think about it later on. Is it possible, I wondered, that this is not limited to parenting? Is it possible that we truly don't realize what makes us happy until after we understand the events in context of The Big Picture?

And if this is the case, is it possible that we are also somehow programmed to fear the wrong things? Perhaps Fear #2 is something I should drop, opting instead to fear a flavorless, dull and utterly predictable life?

Maybe it's time to start ignoring the things that scare me, and welcoming the sweet, unexpected outcomes of just letting go.

(I'm standing by the fear of june bugs, though. Those little bastards are mortifying.)

On Fires and Forecasts

Sitting by a fire at the cabin on Big Butternut, Waffle Guy fell uncharacteristically silent as he gazed into the flames.

"Where'd you go?" I asked.

"Nowhere," he said. "Just thinking about fire."

"What about it?" I prodded, concerned that he was about to reveal a dormant pyromania within.

"It's fascinating. You can't predict it, really," he said. "I mean, you can predict that if you light something flammable, it will burn. And you can predict how wind direction might affect it. But you can never even begin to imagine what shapes the flames will make while the fire is burning."

He moved a bag of marshmallows to make room for me at his side.

"It's so complicated," he said. "It's like, we can sort of predict the weather. We can predict a storm, and know where it will hit, and we can tell whether it will be hot or cold. But no one can tell you what shapes you'll see in the clouds. Except with a fire, it's right there in that fire pit. It's so small, and it's so complicated."

Evening sun set the scarlet tops of distant cumulus clouds ablaze while sparks popped from burning oak logs, and I knew that we, too, were beautiful and random and complex and unscripted. I thought about predictions: We will never know what shapes we might take, but we know that there will be love.

Light from Within, and a Waffle Quote

Okay, so the quote is not even kind of about waffles. It's about love. Which I guess means it IS about waffles, because they are the food of love, but I digress.

Check it:

"Even after all this time the sun never says to the earth, 'You owe me.' Look what happens with a love like that. It lights the whole sky."

That one comes to us courtesy of our friend Hafiz of Shiraz, the 14th century Persian poet who made his European counterpart, Chaucer, seem like a staff writer for USWeekly. Google him, and you'll find a wellspring of poems and quotes and musings that will soothe your soul. Guaranteed remedy for a bad day.

I've been on the receiving end of a love like that, and I can tell you that it's a life-changing thing to experience. It's easy to think that our resources are finite; that we cannot love without first receiving love; that we all eventually run out of steam. And to a degree, that might be true.

But there are people out there like Waffle Guy, or like my children, or the Waffle Dogs, or some of my dearest friends. There's a sort of person who has an endless capacity to let their light shine, and when you're lucky enough to encounter one of them, it lights you up, too. I'm wondering if those people, like the sun, are fueled by some mysterious and powerful internal reaction that generates light enough to warm and nurture the world. What's the difference between those people and the rest of us?

For the next 24 hours, I'm just going to pretend that I'll never run out of energy. I'm going to try to love like I can light the sky, just for a day. And I'm not going to expect a thing in return. I'm not looking to turn into Mother Theresa overnight. But I am curious.

I'm wondering if there's a spark in me somewhere, just waiting to be fueled.

Waffling on Self-Worth, or the Recovering Perfectionist's Manifesto

They're treacherous beasts, those little voices in our heads. You know, the ones that say things like, "You'll never be good enough to be a professional surfer! And by the way, you'd make a crappy physics professor and an even worse maid! Oh, and while we're at it, you can just forget about being an astronaut, punk. We both know that cardboard spaceship you built when you were seven was the least inspired craft in your neighborhood!"

When those voices get chattering, I tend to forget that I don't necessarily want to be a professional surfer, and I've always hated physics, and that my cardboard spaceship actually kind of rocked in an avant-garde sort of way. Instead, I fixate on the fact that I'm Never. Good. Enough. And it gets in my way.

I'll pick up a new hobby, and quickly abandon it on the basis that it's not going so well. "You'll never be any good at gardening," those little voices will say. "It's been five whole days and your seeds have not yet germinated. Give up now, Plant Killer!!!!!"

And I will. I'll be so afraid that the seedlings won't ever grow that I'll stop watering them. And then they don't grow. And then, as I feared, I discover that the little voices were right. And I believe them more, the next time.

Sometimes the voices aren't little. Sometimes they're real. A rather pesky know-it-all who exists on the perimeter of my life decided last weekend that I'm an unfit dog owner, based on several entirely incorrect assumptions she'd made and never bothered to verify. And so, armed with her sense of self-righteousness, she went on a campaign to stop me from adopting the dog for whom I've been searching for several months. I live in a vibrant, lively home. My children, Guy and I are physically active, financially secure, conscientious people who make decisions carefully and live our lives well. We bring our dogs everywhere we go; we diligently monitor their eating and pooping habits; and we shower them with love, affection, and organic training treats at every opportunity. So why was it that when a voice said, "Kate's not good enough", I stayed up for three nights, wondering if I'd made a mistake? Even when there was indisputable evidence to the contrary, why did I try to make myself believe her?

I have a tendency to believe the worst about myself. I jump on every little bit of evidence that I'm a crappy writer, a bad photographer, an awkward conversationalist. While deep inside I often beam with pride at the compassion and kindness that I've managed to teach my daughters somehow, there's always a question, just below the surface, of whether I've also messed them up. Is it possible, I wonder sometimes, that I'm just too dumb to notice all the millions of things I'm doing wrong?

Sometimes I like the fact that I'm a pretty thoughtful, reflective person. I'm proud, sometimes, that I have a gift for being able to see and understand every side of an issue, and that I'm not bound by a rigidity of spirit. I'm good at learning, and good at changing, and most days, I like that about myself. But then there are the days when I find myself wondering if I'm not nearly as smart as I think. What if it's not that I'm reflective, after all? What if I'm just so slow that I have to dwell on the things that are easy for everyone else?

As I'm writing this, I'm beating myself up for being narcissistic and self-absorbed, because honestly: Do I really think anyone cares about all the stuff that goes on in my brain?

It's enough to drive a girl crazy.

Tonight, I cried really hard because I turned in some photos a day late. They were late because I was so afraid of turning them in, because I convinced myself that I'm an artistic joke. When I finally sat down to look at my edits, I got so anxious about my worthiness as a human being that I decided to skip dinner with a bunch of people who I really like. Ah, Anxiety. You're a marvelous liar.

I've decided that I've had enough. Because while it may be true that I am a procrastinator and an artistic amateur and that I tend to be a bit neurotic and kind of flighty, I'm also smart and funny and kind. With a good editor, I'm an amazing writer, and with virtually anyone's writing, I'm a pretty good editor. I'm loving and compassionate, and once you've earned my trust, I'm a very loyal friend. I listen without judgment, and for the most part, I choose my words carefully. I love my children, and I show them that at every chance I get. I'm silly and playful and I laugh all the time. I love traveling because I adore learning about people who are different from me. And I like that about myself.

I will no longer fear that I am inadequate. I will live for the things I love, and love the things I live for. I will notice that, despite my fear of the outcome, I had a great time editing those photos. I will transfer the seedlings that are miraculously still sprouting in their starter-packs on my deck, and I will pat myself on the back for trying, every year, to add life to the world in whatever way I can. I will write and think and talk and laugh, and simply stop worrying about the voice of my own anxiety, or the voices of anyone else, for that matter. I will only listen to the voices of those who truly love me, and only listen to my own voice when it comes from a place of love.

I will be proud of the fact that my children know they are loved.

And while we're at it, I'll take a minute to feel some gratitude that I am curled up in my bed, by the love of my life, while our new dog and the Waffle Hound snore contentedly at our feet.

It's a gift, this life I have, and I am done packaging that gift in my own fears. And, despite the nagging little voice that's telling me that people will only think that I'm self-absorbed and small if I write about that, I'm going to challenge myself to defy those fears publicly, just in case I find that I'm not the only one who struggles this way.

I'll write about it here because, well, it's been three months since I've written, only because I have feared that I have nothing real to say.

But you know what? Writing makes me feel alive, even when it's scary. And from here on out, that's what it's about.

A Taste of the Cabin

I opened my email this morning to find proof that someone reads this stuff. 

(Ahem)

A reader requested a recipe. 

Woah.

Waffle Guy's Easy "Brownies"

2 c. Graham Cracker Crumbs

1 8-oz. can Sweetened Condensed Milk

Halfish bag Semisweet Chocolate Chips (Okay, so we used 2/3 of a bag. So?)

A daring spoonful of high-quality vanilla extract

Combine all ingredients until they make a cement-like dough, taking extra care to sample the sweetened condensed milk (you know, for quality control purposes...and stuff...). Mix until your arm is stiff--this shouldn't take long. Bake at 350 or so until the top is ever-so-lightly golden and the edges are a lovely golden brown. Allow to cool for a bit before cutting, or you'll make a mess.

Waffle Guy's Candied Nuts

2/3 c. granulated sugar

3 T. cinnamon

3 T. water

1 1/2 c. of your favorite nuts (the kind you eat, not the kind to whom you're related)

In a preheated pan, combine all ingredients, stirring rapidly and constantly until you truly believe your nuts are destined to be contained in a slimy layer until the end of time, at which point you actually have only 20 seconds left to stir. All of a sudden, the liquid will turn into a grainy, pretty candy layer. Remove pot from heat, adding 1 more tablespoon of water to separate your newly candied nut confections. Stir some more. Lay flat on a cookie sheet to cool, or go street vendor and serve them warm, from a paper cone. Eat until satisfied. Follow with nap on couch with a warm, soft puppy.

There. How's that for precise writing?

Simplifying the Process

Having been appropriately humbled by the apparent complexity of many sugar waffle recipes, my Guy and I decided to take a new approach: Find the most idiot-proof waffle recipe on the planet, and see if we could make it work. From there, we reasoned, we could tweak and refine our recipe into The One that would bring the joy of True Waffledom to the U.S.A.

A recipe on Cooks.com for "Easy Good Waffles" looked promising. It contained a very short list of simple components, required almost no kitchen skills, and sounded as if it had been named by a troglodyte. Optimism reigned as we gathered our ingredients.

With flour, baking powder, salt and sugar lined up on the counter, I began rummaging through the Guy's kitchen drawers for measuring cups and spoons. The cups were easy enough to find, but my Guy, being a guy, apparently had not used a measuring spoon in eons, and therefore couldn't tell me where I'd find a teaspoon. We combed every last cupboard and drawer, until finally he joyfully handed me a tablespoon. Fair enough, I thought. I could eyeball that amount. I grabbed a coffee spoon from the silverware drawer.

While my eight-year-old daughter dutifully stirred, I added our dry ingredients to a large mixing bowl, reciting the name of each aloud as I did. "...One tablespoon sugar...one-half teaspoon salt...a cup and three-quarters flour...three teaspoons baking powder..."

Eerie silence descended on the kitchen. My Guy had stopped moving, frozen into the smirky posture he only assumes when he knows he's right. "You do know, don't you, that there are three teaspoons in a tablespoon?" he said. 

Sheepishly, I checked the recipe, which indeed had called for three teaspoons of baking powder and one tablespoon of sugar. I became concerned that the directions truly had been written by a cave dweller, and that my interpretation of the recipe was not much more evolved. No matter, I decided. This couldn't be worse than our last attempt.

My daughter added milk, egg yolks and melted butter, and I finished our batter by folding in two stiffly beaten egg whites. It was a batter, to be sure, and not the elegant log of dough we'd seen months before in Bruges. But it was a good  batter. We were making progress.

The Guy assumed the role of lead baker once again, only this time, upon opening the waffle iron, we were greeted with a glorious surprise--palatable waffles. My heart pounded in my chest. It may not be a Liege waffle, but it was a waffle, and that was something. My faith was born anew. 

We served the kids first, and when they didn't die, we decided we'd taste the fruits of our second-ever waffle project, too. To our complete surprise, they were pretty tasty! A far cry from the delicious, dessert-like sugar waffle that fostered our waffle obsession, to be sure, but a heck-of-a-lot better than your average Perkins fare. 

Besides, perfection wasn't the goal on this go-round. I'd set out to make a waffle without destroying it, and I'd succeeded. I doused my waffle in Smucker's Strawberry Syrup and Ready Whip, and reveled in my perceived glory. 

Not the Guy. Ever the critical thinker, he dove into a highly intellectual treatise on the merits and shortcomings of The Waffle 2.0. "I give props to the maker," he said, meaning the waffle maker and not the beautiful woman who'd made the batter. "The texture is lovely. They're gorgeous. They lack just slightly in sweetness." 

He named the waffle iron Esther, and embarked on a side-by-side comparison of shot glasses filled with baking powder to reveal

that my three "teaspoons" of baking powder were, in fact, more generous than the tablespoon for which the recipe should have called. I hated to admit he was right, but I had to be honest--the waffles were a B+, if you were looking for a breakfast waffle. A little more sugar, a little less baking powder, and we'd have created a solid A.

The Verdict: Moderately delicious breakfast waffle. Not much of a sugar waffle. Best served with cheap breakfast-food toppings. 

Next time: More sugar, less baking powder. Possibly more butter. 

The Call of the Waffle

I met my Waffle Guy  last winter, completely unaware that he would introduce me to the snack that would forever alter the way I look at food. I didn't know then that he was my Waffle Guy. I knew only that he was the sweet man who was a friend of friends, that his eyes sparkled, that I liked the places he suggested when he asked me to dinner. 

Flash forward three whirlwind months, and I found myself on a plane bound for Munich, where I was to meet up with him for a few days of European magic. Our itinerary was packed--we'd hang out with friends and family in Germany before exploring the Rhine and Mosul river valleys. Since my Guy had a friend living near Brussels, we figured we'd seize the opportunity to explore a new and unfamiliar country for a couple of days, too. I planned to write about it all. He planned to take lots of photos. And we planned to eat. A lot.

German food was as I expected it to be--hearty, simple and accessible; comfortable without being cumbersome; easy to love. I was thrilled to be surrounded by an abundance of flavors not readily available stateside, accentuated by perfect scenery and friendly people. 

When we visited Belgium, I was full of anticipation for chocolate, and I wasn't disappointed. We braved the world's most terrifying traffic in Brussels to find a Neuhaus Chocolate outlet, from which we proudly departed with three large tote bags filled to the brim with some of the tastiest treats on the planet. We transported our cache to our hotel in Bruges with the utmost care, shielding our insulated bags from the sun and refusing unnecessary stops along the way. It was heaven, and I was convinced I'd never have such a profound love for a snack for the rest of my days. 

I was wrong.

I'd always had a penchant for street vendor foods--there are few joys greater than a bagel in Manhattan or a hot dog in Chicago. My career has afforded me a lovely and broad array of culinary experiences: I've enjoyed the finest dining that my home-base metropolis has to offer, eaten chocolate-covered crickets and literally nibbled almost everything at the Minnesota State Fair, and so I was perhaps a bit cocky when I approached the waffle stand in Bruges. Sure, I expected a yummy treat. But how could I have known that my world was about to change?

The sugar waffles, or Liege waffles, sold in northern Belgium are unlike anything else on the planet. Filled with tiny pearls of sugar that carmelize on the outside and turn to sweet goo on the inside, these incredible confections literally left me speechless.

Not my Guy, though. "Did you see that?" he asked, his mouth full of heaven. "That wasn't batter! They cut big pieces of dough to make those! Like little waffley hockey pucks!" Two-thousand waffle calories later, he was finally able to stop rhapsodizing, rendered silent by the sugar coma that only such a waffle could produce.

Thus began our obsession with The Perfect Waffle. We've discovered that Liege waffle makers are not readily available for sale in the United States, that sugar waffle recipes are widely available and even more widely variable in their ingredients and technique. We've found there are no experts here, no one to simply tell us how to replicate those moments of bliss. And so we're on a quest to find the answers ourselves. Through trial and error, through good recipes and bad, we're committed to discovering how to bring the sugar waffle to the streets of America, or at least to our own kitchens. 

Join us on our journey...