Waffles by the Lake

It is eight-thirty in the morning, an early time for me to be woken up on a weekend, especially at our lake house. As my mom opens the door to my room, she says, “Brittany, it’s time for some waffles!” Excitement rushes over me. Ever since I could eat solid food, waffles have been my favorite. My grandma got the recipe from her grandma, making them beyond better than the Eggo waffles other kids would eat on their Saturday mornings. The aroma of the batter cooking in the waffle iron combined with the scent of maple syrup made it the perfect thing to wake up to, but when I walked up the stairs on this particular morning, this divine scent never hits me. Confused, I enter the kitchen to see all the ingredients laid out on the counter.

“Wait, I thought you said waffles were ready,” I grumbled at my mom, upset she woke me up early when the waffles were not even close to being ready.

“I thought you could make them! You know your grandpa loves it when you make them for the family,” says my mom.

Knowing that turning around, walking back down the stairs, and falling back to sleep was not an option, I continue into the kitchen to make the batter for the waffles. Although you probably wouldn’t believe mixing up some eggs, flour, milk, and baking soda could be considered troublesome or tedious cooking, on this particular morning, I utterly dreaded having to do this. Maybe it was because I had to wake up “early” on the weekend, or maybe it was because my mom forced me to make them, compared to me choosing to do it myself; however, it was something I was not fond of having to do that morning.

I grumpily grab a bowl to mix up all the ingredients while the rest of my cousins sleep and while the rest of my family that was up—my mom, dad, grandma, grandpa, and aunt—sit together in the living room watching TV. After about fifteen minutes, I finish making the batter. At this point, I cannot believe how hungry I am, so I plug in the waffle iron.

“Brit, you know you have to let that sit for twenty minutes before you make them, so they get nice and fluffy, right?” says my mom as she walks by, grabbing more coffee.

“You put in extra vanilla extract, too, right?” says my grandpa, after hearing I was done making the batter. “You know that’s what makes them so great!”

Every “right?” I heard made me want to scream. Every reminder I got made me want to recoil back to my room. Every minute I waited made me want to fall back asleep. The twenty minutes to allow the batter to reach the ideal fluffiness eventually passes, and I can finally make the waffles. I pour the impeccable batter into the steaming waffle iron, turn it over, and wait for the light to turn on that indicates that it is golden brown. When that light flashes on, I turn it over to reveal the perfect waffle.

I head to the table to sit down with my perfect waffle, to make all my not-so-hard work worth it. Just as I set the waffle down on the table, my grandpa says, “Oh! The first waffle’s ready!” He then devours my perfect waffle in less than two minutes.

“That little bit of extra vanilla extract made them perfect,” says my grandpa. “You know how to make them exactly how I like ‘em. Thanks, Brit.”

“I want the next one!” says my aunt.

After that morning, it became a Saturday morning tradition for me to make waffles when my family was at our lake house together. I wake up at eight-thirty to make the batter, so the waffles could be on the table by nine for family breakfast. I stand by the waffle iron, cooking everyone’s waffles, and I get a big thanks once everyone was done eating and a big hug from my grandpa, which almost makes getting up before ten on the weekend worth it.

By the end, there is just enough batter to make myself a waffle. I grab this final waffle, some syrup, and a glass of milk, walk out to the porch, sit down, and finally eat my waffle, looking out on the lake.