Yesterday, while touring the Berkeley Plantation in Charles City, Va., I saw an antique waffle iron. Now, I can’t say that I’m versed in the history of waffles — if I were, maybe I wouldn’t have been so surprised to see a waffle iron from the 19th century — but as a huge fan of that particular breakfast food, I found the discovery truly exciting.
Growing up, my family was all about pancakes. The International House of Pancakes was a favorite date destination for my parents when they were broke college students, and I have a feeling that later had something to do with the vaunted status of pancakes in our home. In fact, during high school, IHOP was always my first suggestion for pre-Homecoming or pre-Prom meals. Who needs some fancy restaurant where you can’t take a sip of water without an obsequious server immediately refilling the glass?
Still, some dear family friends never let us forget that there is another batter-based breakfast option: the waffle. My first waffle may very well have been encountered at Diana’s table, and I can say with certainty that she’s made some of the best waffles I’ve ever had. Then there was her son Charley’s obsession with Waffle House — a popular breakfast chain in 25 states — because it was cheap and open 24 hours. Although it would be years before I actually went to a Waffle House, I couldn’t see one without thinking of him.
Except for those special times at Diana’s house in Texas, it wasn’t until I got to college that waffles became a personal favorite. When I was a freshman at NYU, the Third North dining hall always had a waffle station, with two irons and a variety of toppings. In an effort to avoid the freshman 15, instead of gobbling up the ice cream that was right next to it, I’d make exciting waffles for dessert. My favorite was the banana split waffle: a Belgian waffle covered in sliced banana, strawberries and walnuts, then drizzled with chocolate, rather than maple syrup. Really, how could that be bad?
But as much as I love waffles, it’s probably safe to say that my sister loves them even more. Every time we saw a Waffle House during a cross-country road trip, we took a picture of the sign. Our trip photos — of which there are thousands — are peppered with pictures of bright yellow signs with black writing against the clear blue sky. If I remember correctly, we actually only ate at a Waffle House once, but the reason might have been that we always had waffles for breakfast at our hotels.
A La Quinta Inn in Amarillo, Texas took the prize for not only having great waffles, but also for having waffles shaped like the state. After that, plain ol’ waffles just weren’t as exciting.
During the past year, my love of waffles has increased through my involvement with Saturday morning waffle breakfasts in the apartment building where I live and work. I arrive at least an hour-and-a-half early to chop walnuts, slice bananas, thaw strawberries, blueberries and sometimes, raspberries and cherries. I arrange all of the toppings on trays and mix the first three batches of batter. Then it’s off to the races, and during a busy morning, we can go through more than 100 servings before the two hours are up.
Clearly I’m not the only one who appreciates a good waffle.
The upside of all the work is that at the end, I get to make my own — and rarely does anything taste quite as good. Inevitably, I come to the conclusion that someday my sister and I should open a gourmet waffle restaurant with all sorts of mouth-watering combinations on the menu. Google informs me that there are many variations on the waffle worldwide — so perhaps waffle tourism could be explored, trekking through Europe to sample the various local varieties. In the end, my waffle-inspired fantasies will probably not amount to much more than a weekend treat in my own kitchen, but in my opinion, the result is just as sweet.
Sarah’s column runs biweekly Wednesdays. She can be reached at s.brummett@cavalierdaily.com.
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