We were at a restaurant, and Ming was eating a waffle. It had a clump of butter on it, and a thing of syrup on the side. “I wanna try your waffle,” I told him. Wow, it was delicious. “Do you know how old I was when I had my first waffle?”
I’m thinking I was a teenager. The family of my first husband had a waffle maker. Waffles were an amazing, exotic thing. They still seem pretty exotic and extravagant.
A new friend gave me some fancy lotion for Christmas. It was grapefruit-scented. The small lotion thing had pretty flowers on it and a black angular lid. I thought it was too fancy for me and I shouldn’t have it or deserve it–I thought I should give it to someone else who could appreciate it better.
Then I changed my mind and loved its grapefruit scent, and it taught me some kind of lesson that I don’t need to go bougie but a nice lotion is not wasted on me. My skin is dry–I live in the desert. Why not.
That’s how I feel about waffles too. Well, I’m at the beginning stage. They seem too good for me.
I was working on the new vegan cookzine in the middle of the night, wrote a recipe and the intro, a essay about breakfast, and something about eating while disabled. Felt good but how could I have this many zines going. Dang.
Mom was talking about making pancakes. I said pancakes are waffles’ awkward little sister. But maybe we’ll make banana peach muffins. She’s a muffin maker–we’ll see.
