“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 