Wednesday, July 19, 2006

Ducks and Waffles Don't Mix

I adore food. I love food. I'm obsessed with food. I talk about it all the time, sighing and looking adoring at the empty space in front of me as I imagine some culinary delight. I am suprisingly svelte for being so neurotic about food. My husband is convinced I weigh 400 lbs and he is "Shallow Hal."

I particularly love breakfast food- like waffles. I am on a waffle fixation. I can't get enough. Waffles and French toast and pancakes with cheese omelets.....I'm staring blankly again at the wall and licking my lips. Breathe, breathe. Ok.

I wake up in the middle of the night with cold sweats for waffles. My mother made the mistake of buying me a waffle maker for Christmas (ok, I asked for it) and I've never been the same. Every few weeks, I itch for them. And I've burnt out everyone around me on waffles. As much as I adore them, not even I can eat 8 waffles as large as a dinner plate. I've tried. All that resulted from my vigorous endeavors was a hurting stomach, a lot of gas and three days worth of bloating.

So when my Mom and sister decided to come down, I was absolutely delighted. Not only because I got to see them, but because I could make them eat waffles with me. I didn't mention it right away, because I didn't want them to deny it. I waited until the afternoon and sprung it on them.

"I want waffles for dinner," I demanded loudly.

"Ok," they said, turning back to shopping. I was dismayed. That was not the dramatic response I was wishing for.

When dinnertime came, I mixed the batter and poured it into the waffle iron. I fluttered about pouring drinks and making eggs, ever the vigilant host, when my mom began to stare at the waffle iron.

"Uhh..." She said, pointing at it. "It's overflowing."

"Oh it's fine...." I said, turning around and dropping my jaw. The waffle iron was not overflowing a tiny bit. It had spread all over the counter and was itching it's way towards the floor. The ready light was twinkling brightly, so I marched over there and lifted up the lid. Instead of a golden brown waffle, I found a mass of gooey dough crisped on the edges and stuck in the grid of the maker. I felt tears come to my eyes. My beautiful waffle was ruined! I would have to make more! As I scraped out the grid carefully, trying not to burn myself, I commented that I was usually much better at making waffles. Karen backed me up, saying "She's never been this bad before." I poured some more batter into the grill, thinking this time it would surely work.

Nope. Just after cleaning up the eruption on the counter, more dough oozed it's way between the crack of the grill. Another waffle was ruint, and I was depressed. I relinquished control of the waffle iron to Mom.

My mother calmly made some more batter and poured it into the iron. She produced 4 beautiful brown, crispy waffles.

"Why did I do so bad?" I asked allowed. "I'm never that bad."

"It's probably just a fluke," Mom reassured me.

I went and poured some batter into the grill. By the time I got back to the table, I turned around warily. It was happily oozing all over the counter again, and Mom and Karen were laughing at me. I put my head on the table. I'm a failure at cooking waffles.

It's a good thing I'm not a failure at eating them. When it comes to cooking, the Blonde Duck and waffles do not mix. Eating waffles is an entirely other matter.