Kindred Spirits and Sunday Silliness

I've been secretly stalking Dan, author of the astounding Waffleizer Blog, for some time now, and I thought it was time that I shared his genius with all of you.

Dan is a Web editor at the Chicago Tribune who shares our passion for waffles. His approach is a departure from our unabashed holier-than-thou, Sugar-Waffle-or-Die attitude. Rather, Dan tackles some of the Waffle Universe's heavier questions, such as the all-important "Will it Waffle?"

Armed with a trusty waffle iron and a lot of creativity,  Dan explored the waffling potential of 30 of his favorite foods, ardently journaling his successes and failures along the way.

Alas, Dan opted not to continue blogging after his 30th recipe was finished, which totally breaks my heart. I check the Waffleizer every week or so, just in case Dan happens to change his mind. He never does.

Even so, bear-hugging Dan from the Waffleizer has an important place on my bucket list. Waffle Gods willing, it will happen someday.

Independence

The Middle Child made a proud declaration this morning, as she plated up her Sunday waffle. "We got blackberries and strawberries and whipped cream, Mama," she said. "For Independence Day."

July 4th has always been among her favorite days. I remember holding a baby, five weeks old, who stared in rapt attention to the bursts of colored stars. When she got older, she'd rest her head on my shoulder as we stretched out on a blanket and watched the sky. "Those ones are my favorite," she'd whisper, her hands on my cheeks. "No. Those are my favorite."

It's interesting that she enjoys the festivities so much. Any other day, crowds and noise and explosions  incite irascibility from this child. But not on Independence Day. Perhaps she understands that to find the meaning of freedom, one must embrace that which is unpredictable.

Waffle Guy assumed the role of executive chef this morning, with The Middle Child acting as prep cook, leaving me free to observe. Under his direction, she mixed a batter that yielded the most delicious waffles we've created in the year since this journey began.

Sweetest of all was watching her, nine years old and thriving, at the dawn of her own independence.

She's developed a fascinating new habit, as of late. "I'm going to save up $200," she'll tell me. And then she'll do it.

Last month, she informed me that she'd be participating in her first triathlon  on July 17th. This wasn't the same child who confidently stated she was going to be an Astronaut Cowgirl when she grew up. There was no childish ignorance, no irrational logic. This time, she knew what it took and intended to succeed. Day after day she swims and runs and bikes, completely driven to accomplish her mission. The force that drives her confounds me, rising from the mystery that is her soul, entirely independent of my influence. Suddenly, she is her own woman. It is both victory and defeat, that she needs less and less of me, and it speeds my pulse to think of it.

She didn't macerate the strawberries this morning, although macerating strawberries is one of her very favorite things to do. Today she decided to leave them whole; to pile them atop whipping cream along with tangy, firm blackberries; to add her very own, sweet spin to a tradition that we've come to love.

I scraped the last crumbs onto my fork, lost in all of the things I wanted to tell her. It's your life, too, Little One. 

But there was no need to say it. She already knows.

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.