“I have a great idea.”
My wife said this from the kitchen and it is from the kitchen, more than any other room, that she comes up with ideas for me to do things I do not want to do.
“Why don’t you come into the living room and tell me about it?” I suggested.
“Why should I do that?” she asked.
“No reason,” I replied.
“Aren’t you going to ask me what my idea is?”
“Sure, what’s your idea?”
“Waffles.”
I’ll admit, waffles are a brilliant idea. I love waffles—who doesn’t? But making them requires a special appliance, inevitably stashed in the furthest corner of the bottommost shelf in the most inaccessible cabinet in the kitchen.
“How about oatmeal instead?” I ventured.
“No,” she said firmly, “but it’d be extra sweet if you made me waffles.”
There’s no arguing with that. The price of winning would be too steep.
So, waffles it is.
I lowered myself to the floor and stuck my head into the most inaccessible cabinet in the kitchen. It’s been years since I made waffles, and it’s no coincidence that it’s been just as long since I’ve flexed the muscles needed to retrieve the waffle maker from that bottom shelf. My body reminded me of this with every creak.
The first appliance I encountered was the Veg-O-Matic. We bought it at the Minnesota State Fair from a pitchman we couldn’t resist. He promised it would make us happier, healthier, and wealthier. It’s done none of those things—only made our cabinets clutterier.
Next came a platoon of crockpots, each a unique size, shape, and brand. Predictably, the larger the pot, the further back it was shoved.
Beyond the crockpots lay a shadowy region of unidentifiable appliances. Some might be toasters, others toaster ovens. A few were still in their original, unopened boxes. These appliances, untouched by human hands for years, seemed skittish and unruly.
Finally, way in the back, my fingertips brushed a small, round, chrome-plated object. The waffle maker, I hoped. What else could it be? Not the meat slicer, please.
I nudged it to get a better grip, but it resisted. I tugged harder, only to discover it was the meat slicer.
Behind it lay another small, round, chrome-plated object. This one had two raised Teflon grids instead of a circular blade—thankfully, the waffle maker. I grabbed and pulled, but it wouldn’t budge. Perhaps the cord was tangled. I pulled again, and it seemed to pull back.
This is when I realize my hand has extended a whole lot further into the cabinet than our kitchen goes. I have experienced this mystery in other places in our house – and it does not end well. They air movies about such things on the Syfy Channel.
I quickly scurried out of the cabinet.
If the little guy wants to be left in peace, I am willing to oblige it.
“So, what made you think of waffles?” I asked.
She was gazing out the kitchen window at the frost-shrouded trees lining the banks of Five Drunk Creek.
“Nothing, really,” she said.
Then it hit me. We’d delayed our annual trip south this year for so many reasons, and every year, we know we’ve escaped the north’s cold grip when we spot our first Waffle House. It’s our tradition to stop there.
“I have a great idea,” I said.
“What?” she asked.
“How about tomorrow morning, we order pecan waffles from a waitress who calls you ‘Honey’?”
“Kansas City?” she asked.
“You bet,” I said.
Almost Iowa 
Wonderful ♥️
Your idea is brilliant. My last business trip had me staying at a hotel that was 5 minutes from a Waffle House, and that was by far the best and most productive part of the trip.
Also “clutterier” is my new favorite word.
Clutterier is a fine word but WARNING, injuries have been reported from people trying to pronounce it.
My lovely wife, Peggy, is willing to make waffles for me on demand. That isn’t because I have trained her. It’s because she has trained me to make breakfast for her the other 6 days of a week. She gets to start it with a latte in bed. You will be amazed at how willing she will be to make a waffle for you. She will even fight the demons in the back of your cabinets to do so.
I come from a very large family and every Saturday morning, mom got to sleep late while dad made breakfast. One morning, Dad served SPAM for breakfast.
“How do you like it?” he asked.
“Okay….” we said, pushing it around on the plate with our forks.
“Good,” he said, “think about this. I lived on that for three years in New Guinea.”
From later conversations, SPAM at every meal with the best part of New Guinea. He lost sight in one eye, his sense of smell and taste and acquired a nasty livelong case of COPD from the island.
But hey, every month the government mailed him a check for $1 in compensation. No kidding.
Ouch. WWII I assume.
I ate can corned beef in Africa for two years mixed with greens, palm oil, hot peppers and tomato paste served over rice. I came to love it.
I escaped without any health problems or anyone shooting at me. I did wake up one morning, however, around three am with soldiers pounding on my door with rifles. That was worrisome.
I’m a tad disappointed you weren’t willing to venture into another dimension for the sake of story, Greg.😔
As a matter of fact, my wife often accuses me of being in another dimension.
🤣
Yes, it is definitely time to head south to “Waffle House” country. And leave those hidden appliances alone! They are where they want to be.
I should have been warned by the muttering in sinister tones from the cabinet once I opened the door. Will never do that again.
Best not to attempt forcing the waffle maker into service. I’d hate to read a blog post about you living in a hotel after a fire. Let the experts in KC handle things – that’s a great idea.
Safety first when it comes to waffles.
Having been a breakfast waitress for the majority of my adult life I have to say, when in doubt, leave it to the professionals! Very clever write!
Seriously, thank you for your service. Some of my most pleasant memories come from breakfast with colleagues at a downtown restaurant.
Great solution! And really fun post!
Heading for a warmer climate is always the best solution.
What? Not a single mention of the Waffle House Index? It’s no joke. Down here in hurricane territory, we take it very seriously. There’s not much that can be counted on these days, but waffleology rules. We may not want to eat them, but we want the waffle makers to be able to produce.
It’s funny that the index started in Joplin. After Hurricane Ike, I was taking my mother up to her sister’s house in Kansas City to wait things out while I went back to Texas and put life back together. We stayed in Joplin, and went to the Waffle House on Rangeline Road for dinner. Mom didn’t know what to think of the place at first, and when the old dude in the next booth started hitting on her, she became even more ambivalent. Eventually, it was one of her favorite stories to tell, especially since she was ninety years old at the time.
Too bad there are no Waffle Houses in California. They could have served as a howto example.
It’s always easier to go out for waffles than make them. You made me smile with the mention of the Kansas City area which was home for about 30 years. Hope breakfast was delicious.
Here is my waffle/pancake secret. Add cooked oatmeal. It adds body and makes breakfast stay with you all day.
Please may I use clutterier when describing my husband’s office?
Use it where ever it applies.
I think the KC run is an excellent idea. I have a couple of those cabinets, and I have padlocked them for safety.
I tried padlocks but whatever was in there staged a prison break.
Yeah that happens.
I have that same cabinet.
Kansas City is a much safer bet.
A fun foray and creative solution. Say hi to KC for me!
Well, drat, now I want waffles.
Sound like a trip to Waffle House, so much safer than digging into all but abandoned kitchen cabinets.
Mine have to be gluten-free, so I gotta dig for the little baker thingy.
Waffle House….kind of like the local laundromat. It’s a whole ‘nother world.
Oooh, and I do like that word ‘clutterier.’ Rolls off the tongue so to speak.
“clutterier” perfectly describes everything in our house.