A Story About Waffles

The name of my blog is A Story About Waffles.

Thank you, that concludes the first entry of this blog. Please check back regularly for…

I’ve just been informed that this is an odd name for a blog and people are demanding explanation.

There are two major reasons why I named this rag A Story About Waffles.

Number one: Because waffles are the superior breakfast pastry. Pancakes are a fine substitute, but only if a waffle iron is not present. Crepes have their moment but please don’t push your luck. And don’t even think about coming at me with your French toast arguments! Waffles are all you need. Mitch Hedberg made a joke saying “Waffles are like pancakes with syrup traps, they’re perfect!”

Number two, and probably more to the point: Many moons ago, I wrote a short story where a character evoked a simple mantra:

Life is just that thing that happens in between your last waffle and your next waffle.

Over time, I adopted that line of thinking, and streamlined it in my mind to say Life is just a story about waffles. It may not make sense at first, but the more you think about it, and the more you realize that the statement refers to both physical AND metaphysical waffles, the more sense it will make.

---

I’ve been told you like to read things. I located the excerpt from the aforementioned short story, so please, partake in the reading of it below:

“Where’s the waitress? I am … le famished,” Ros declared unfurling the menu with a flourish.

Trot leaned forward, cupping his face in his dirty hands. “I don’t know how you can think of food at a time like this,” he murmured in between the cracks of his fingers.

“Distress does not discount your animal instinct for sustenance.” Ros flattened the menu to the table and grinned. “Why am I even looking this? I knew what I was getting the moment I opened the door.”

Trot didn’t respond. He was content to wallow in his misery.

…

The plate Marie brought over was stacked with as many of the finest Belgian pastries the Black Road Diner’s third shift cook could make. Ros patted her hands together in a reserved excitement. If she could have done cartwheels down the aisle without further embarrassing Trot, she would have.

Marie put the plate down with one hand, and pulled out a can of Whippy Top whipped cream, proceeding to uncap the can and produce a swirl of fluffy whipped cream on top of the waffle stack. When the mound of condensed sugar milk was complete, Marie back away.

“Enjoy, love,” she said with a sweet smile. She looked at Trot. “Sure you don’t want nothin’, droopy?”

Trot would have scowled at her, but he couldn’t take his eyes off of Ros and her food of choice. After what they had witnessed that night—the fire, running for their very lives, getting separated from Tag and Vera—they wound up at the Black Road Diner, like clockwork.

“You’re ridiculous,” Trot uttered, a tone so sheathed it was hard to tell whether he was being playful or derogatory. “You’re a grown-ass woman eating Belgian waffles at 2:30 in the morning.”

Ros was undistressed, taking a small glob of the whip cream off with a fork. “If this is what you consider ridiculous, then consider me a court jester on cocaine,”she responded with mirth.

Trot reached across and grabbed her arm. “Ros… We almost died today.” His grip tightened over her sleeve. “We still might. They could be waiting for us right outside those doors.”

Ros let an airy smile extend over her face. “It’s ok, Reggie.” She was the only one who could get away calling him by his given name. “Don’t be in a rush to burst this little bubble we’re in. Let it… dance in the wind just a little bit longer.” She looked down and used her fork to cut into the stack of waffles.

Trot pulled his hand away. Somehow, even if just for a moment, her words calmed him. “I really don’t get you.” His tone was reduced to a passive, almost friendly nature. “You have such an aloof outlook on life… even in the midst of certain death.”

Ros plucked a piece of waffle from her plate. “And you’re calling me aloof? It doesn’t matter whether you’re running from jerks with guns or sitting in a diner, death is always a certain outcome… eventually.” She pulled the impaled waffle bite up to her mouth but paused. “And life… well… Life is just that… thing… that happens in between your last waffle and your next waffle.”

This is the end of the first post. Please return, there will be more.