When I was a kid, Dad would sometimes haul an aged and decrepit waffle iron out of the closet on Saturday mornings and mix up batter to make brown crispy waffles for us kids. We'd get a stack of two or three waffles, a side of bacon or sausage links and a big glass of juice for breakfast. I always felt like the luckiest kid in the world for some reason. I can remember swinging my legs under the breakfast table in anticipation of watching gobs of butter melting in the little nooks and crannies of the waffles and chanting for more maple syrup when Dad divvied out the liquid gold.
Food memories are such powerful things!
