Waffle House

My family likes having breakfast for dinner. In fact, we have it probably every week and a half or so. The menu will vary: sometimes I'll make scrambled eggs and toast, other times, pancakes, sausage and fried eggs. We've had french toast, roasted potatoes, and fruit. Nothing too creative or fancy, just good, filling, food. The one thing I haven't made is homemade waffles. Not because I don't like them, but simply because I didn't have a waffle iron.

So last week, on a trip to my parent's house, I thought about the fact that my mom had a waffle iron. If I borrowed said iron, I would be able to gauge 1. if I liked the contraption and 2. if I would use it. There's no point to getting an appliance and not using it. (Those of you who know my parents will find such humor in that simple statement. Read on.)

Well here's how the whole thing went down.
Me: Mom. Do you know where your waffle iron is?
Mom: It should be in the closet.
The closet is this place in their upstairs hallway that houses a billion and one items that my parents rarely use. Wait, I'm lying. They use and replace the toilet paper, the toothpaste, and the batteries. But the cake pans shaped like easter eggs? I'm betting mom hasn't used those since about 1990, if not before. And the old leather suitcase? Don't even get me started. (They used to also have a rowing machine and an IBM typewriter, only one of which fit into the closet.)
Me: Can I borrow it? I'm thinking on getting one, but I want to make sure I'll use it before I buy one.
Mom: Yes, if we can find it. But make sure I get it back!
The look in her eyes bothered me. Because, of course, she has plans to make waffles next week? (Can you sense the snark in that statement?) Because I'm not trustworthy? Because she doesn't already have enough junk in that closet that isn't used and could be donated to a worthy cause?
Me: Don't worry, Mom. I'll get it back to you.
Mom: I used to use that a lot, you know.
If by a lot, she means once every 10 years, then I guess I can't argue with her. And now, she lives with a diabetic husband, one who shouldn't eat any waffles she might make. Which is why she buys the frozen kind that resemble cardboard.

I made waffles last night. They were tasty, but they stuck horribly to the upper lid of the waffle iron. So there's no threat, Mom, of me confiscating that waffle iron. You can have the damn thing back. I'll even pay postage to get it to you if necessary.

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