Maria, you can just text me. You don’t have to do this anonymous ask box thing.
November 5, 2013
It was one of those mornings when you don’t wake up until you’re halfway out the door. I had gotten 2 hours of sleep, or maybe 3 if you count the time spent lying awake, staring up at the ceiling. I was past the point of wishing I could go back to bed. I had forgotten what it was like to sleep. I only knew the pain of waking up.
I blinked and I was standing in Baker, I had made this morning march so many times that my mind had long ago ceased to register it. I glanced around, looking for the shortest line and therefore, the best way to expedite my day. To my surprise, there was no line at the waffle iron. I dragged myself to it and drenched the iron in Pam. I should have known by the way it glistened, the slow, tantalizing way the batter dripped off the ladle that this waffle was going to be special.
It was the longest 3 minutes and 30 seconds of my life. After some amount of time, I could smell the delicious meal taking shape inside the iron. The world slowed down around me, I could feel every millisecond pass between the ticks of the clock. Nothing moved. Nothing made a sound.
The timer told me that I should wait another 18 seconds but I couldn’t hold myself back. I tore the iron open and threw the waffle against my plate. I buttered it gently but quickly, gliding the knife against the flawlessly crispy surface. Then I drizzled syrup all over it. I used very little; the bare minimum as not to drown out the taste of my lovely waffle.
I almost ran to the first open table, grabbing a fork and knife on my way. I gently laid the plate down on the table and took great care in setting a small pile of napkins out. I would need them later.
The time had come. I prepared my utensils and held them over my waffle. I paused but for a moment to appreciate the way the syrup oozed from one of the golden combs. Then I plunged my fork into it, breaking the crunchy outer layer and spearing through the soft heart of the waffle. Using the knife, I broke off a piece and lead it tenderly to my mouth. It tasted like God.
A tear escaped my eye as I swallowed the morsel. I almost swooned on the spot but I had to persist. It had the perfect texture. It was crunchy, yet soft and moist. My tongue felt like a drill breaking the crust of some heavenly world and falling into the hot molten goodness below. The butter and syrup only served to increase my ecstasy. I could hold back no longer.
“Come to daddy!” I cried in a low, throaty tone.
I attacked the golden thing on my plate as if I were a ravenous animal. People stared at me but I didn’t care. I wanted the whole waffle inside of me and I wanted it immediately. Forkfuls of the thing lunged at my face, only to be devoured by my hungry mouth. I wept and ate and wept.
Finally it was over. The plate was in two pieces and the left most prong of the fork was bent. A mixture of syrup and butter had found its way across my face and into my hair. I was panting. My waffle was gone. I was content.
I picked up each half of my plate and took my time walking to the exit. People moved around me in a wide birth. Someone screamed; another dropped a bowl of fruity pebbles. I think I heard someone crying but most just stared, dead eyed, and open mouthed.
I have not gone back to Baker since then. I don’t think I ever will. That waffle has a special place in my heart and in my stomach. I don’t think any breakfast will ever replace it.
Just drop us a message or an ask with your request to be a member along with your email address!
WE WANT YOUR INPUT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Becoming a member is an easy way to get involved with
ourYOUR wallpaper blog! Post your wallpapers and add to the massive compilation we are slowly compiling.
DROP US THOSE REQUESTS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! GOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOG
I just realized that she uses the word ‘Lunatic’ because Chell sends herself and half the room to the moon.
Drivin’ home for Christmas, 2012