For many families around the world, food is the only daily break from the tedium of life’s various tasks and for many it is the only time the family is all together. Growing up, dinner time was a mandatory attendance event for my family and until my sister and I started making dinner one night a week my mother cooked every dinner. Granted this could be considered a tradition but for the most part we never fully appreciated the meal since we were probably being called away from play time to eat it. On the other hand my father cooked breakfast every Saturday until he retired from active duty and entered the National Guard and then the ritual was cut back by one weekend per month. In his eyes this may have actually been a good thing since he could only cook three things; pancakes, French toast, and everyone’s favorite Belgium Waffles.
Belgium Waffles were more of an art than food for dad and when we were little he was still working on tweaking his recipe to perfection. After years of adding and subtracting various and sometimes strange ingredients, he was satisfied and his waffles as were my taste buds. The pancakes were good and the French toast a powdery sugar delight but his waffles were the only food that kept my sister and me from asking to be excused early. There was another Saturday morning ritual tied to this which my parents initiated intentionally with the single purpose of dividing our family of four into two groups. Under no circumstances were we ever allowed to watch Saturday morning cartoons and a threat of the TV being permanently removed seemed like the most unimaginable punishment. So, we did what any red blooded American child would do, very quietly sneak into the den and watch our cartoons with the volume so low our noses almost touched the screen to hear it, and could feel the static electricity of the screen tweaking at your hair and eyelashes. My father confided to me many years later that they had devised the scheme knowing we be up at 6 watching cartoons in relative silence so my parents could enjoy the only day they could sleep in.
Belgium Waffles were more of an art than food for dad and when we were little he was still working on tweaking his recipe to perfection. After years of adding and subtracting various and sometimes strange ingredients, he was satisfied and his waffles as were my taste buds. The pancakes were good and the French toast a powdery sugar delight but his waffles were the only food that kept my sister and me from asking to be excused early. There was another Saturday morning ritual tied to this which my parents initiated intentionally with the single purpose of dividing our family of four into two groups. Under no circumstances were we ever allowed to watch Saturday morning cartoons and a threat of the TV being permanently removed seemed like the most unimaginable punishment. So, we did what any red blooded American child would do, very quietly sneak into the den and watch our cartoons with the volume so low our noses almost touched the screen to hear it, and could feel the static electricity of the screen tweaking at your hair and eyelashes. My father confided to me many years later that they had devised the scheme knowing we be up at 6 watching cartoons in relative silence so my parents could enjoy the only day they could sleep in.
In June 2008 my wife and I announced that we were expecting a baby in January. My mother was overjoyed to the point of tears while my father remained stoic offering only a slightly firmer handshake than usual. Half a year later on my Birthday our son was born and my parents came up to visit and stayed an extra week to celebrate, but since I had both hips replaced two months prior it was really to help us around the house and allow us to settle into parenthood. They arrived at our home dragging along one suit case and a few wrapped presents. After settling in dad started getting itchy for us to open the present’s which would be considered very odd behavior for him. We obliged and opened our son’s presents while mom snapped pictures. My family’s ritual for opening presents be it Christmas, Birthday, or baby shower, begins with the individual cards and then onto packages of increasing size until only the largest package remains. To my surprise the last one wore my name on it and while I read the attached note I caught glances of my dad’s rarely seen smirkish smile. As I tore off the wrapping paper to reveal its contents, his smirk broadened into almost certainly the cheesiest perma-grin ever to cross his face. The box contained a new Belgium waffle iron (one of the really nice ones that suspends the iron above the base and rotates 180 degrees once you pour in the batter). Included was a 3x5 note card with dad’s famous Saturday morning waffle recipe and with it the unspoken sentiment that he enjoyed making the waffles as much as we had enjoyed eating them. Now a few years later the iron is well seasoned turning out waffles every three minutes and with them another generation of memories of this Anderson family tradition.
