One of my first memories of waffles are those my mom made on Sunday mornings. Mom took great care making our waffle breakfast, mixing the ingredients until just blended then folding in the beaten-stiff egg whites. The waffles came out fluffy and I loved them, because I loved my mom. I loved those Sunday mornings when my family sat down together for a meal, talked and enjoyed each other’s company. Those times are fond memories.
Since my mom died, I hadn’t enjoyed homemade waffles until three
years ago. Nor has a waffle breakfast meant as much until someone else I loved
made them for me on Sunday mornings. The waffles were simple, a recipe on the
back of a Bisquick box, yet tasted incredibly delicious. With a few slices of bacon,
scrambled eggs, and a waffle topped with butter and syrup, adding a cup of
Starbucks coffee or hot tea along with a side dish of meaningful and
intellectually stimulating conversation, I enjoyed the togetherness of my favorite
meal of the day. My heart warmed once again with the fond moments shared with my
loved one.
Just as the togetherness of family waffle breakfasts ended,
so ended my recent experiences of Sunday morning waffles. Since the end of July, I have felt out
of sort with loneliness every other weekend, and I missed those waffle
breakfasts. I decided to tackle the overwhelming sense of emptiness by making
Sunday morning waffles myself. I buy a waffle maker and a box of Bisquick.
The smell of bacon and Starbuck’s coffee wafts through the air, triggering
within me a sense of comforting familiarity. The waffle iron heated, I prepare
the waffle mix, making my own waffle while eggs scrambled nearby. I sit down
at the table with a waffle dressed in butter and syrup, bacon to its left
and eggs to its right, ready to savor the joy of a breakfast I’ve missed. I
take one bite, and the letdown takes over. My waffle doesn’t taste the same,
lacking something, but what? I used Bisquick, and the same recipe on the side
of the box, so what happened? I try it again the next weekend, and once again, my waffle
experience disappoints, leaving me feeling unfulfilled.
I decide to try another strategy, picking up a box of actual
waffle mix with the hope of yielding a more palatable experience. Once
again, my anticipation is let down as the breakfast leaves little to be
desired. Wait! I remember I had my mom’s cookbook, contained within it the very
waffle recipe she used. I gather what I need, carefully following the recipe to
the nth degree. Ever hopeful, I sit down to the waffle breakfast I cherished in
the long ago past, as well as the ones more recently. I cut a piece of
the waffle dressed in butter and syrup and bring it to my mouth. I chew in
anticipation of that warm and fuzzy feeling I have missed over the last twenty
weeks; that both my mouth and heart long to experience once again. I chew. I
wait for that familiar feeling. While the waffle was the best waffle I had made thus far,
it isn’t the waffle I sought.
In that moment I realized the missing ingredient was the company
I loved when eating the waffle. The flavor of togetherness seasoned my Sunday
morning breakfasts. It added to the meal which was a beautiful way to start my
day, to end the weekend, and to start my week. What I was seeking was the company I loved and enjoyed while eating the waffle on Sunday mornings.
Upon this realization, I knew it is time for me to let
go of the waffle. It only wanted to be my breakfast every
other weekend; and only then because I filled a void on weekends when others
weren’t around to enjoy it. This understanding reminded me why I chose to end
my three-year relationship. I just never realized that doing so would make a waffle
taste so heartbreakingly different.
