Waffles are my ultimate comfort food.
Not Belgian waffles or chocolate waffles or Eggo waffles, but waffles.
How could they not be? Even the word is delicious.
Saturday morning was waffle morning. Daddy would get up and make a double (or triple—or for a season there in high school, quadruple) batch of waffles, filling the iron so full that the batter would overflow in goopy stalactites over the side. It was a consistent problem, but it was done on purpose.
The problem with waffles, of course, is that there are only four squares to a batch. (And we used vintage waffle irons that actually served more than one serving at a time, which you can’t find anymore and often come with fraying cords that
occasionally will eventually catch on fire. In other words: priceless.) Continue reading