2004-01-12
Wap-Os
Peetie has been on a waffle-making kick.
Her job is to make the waffles. My job is to eat half of them.
And pour the syrup and spread the butter.
Eat waffles. Pour syrup. Spread butter. Eat more waffles. Pour more syrup. Spread more butter.
Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. Snack. Snack between snacks.
Her boyfriend Jordan bought her an industrial commercial-grade super duper Belgian waffle maker with wings and bells and whistles for Christmas.
I knew there was something about him I liked.
Growing up, we always ate waffles on Saturday mornings. Friends would just show up for the big Saturday Wap-o* breakfast.
The dog always got the first one, as it always had the detritus from the last Saturday.
(Any true waffle aficionado knows that you don't use butter or some forsaken non-stick spray for the waffles; you just put them on and let the Teflon do its job.)
We had every type of syrup imaginable. Butter. Whipped cream.
But we didn't have an industrial commercial-grade super duper Belgian waffle maker with wings and bells and whistles.
*"Wap-o" is Dad's, and now all of our, name for "waffles." Don't ask me why. I couldn't tell you.
betholindo at 6:40 p.m.