Mrs. Teabody Adores Waffles

Good Morning from Meadow Grounds Mountain where the leafing trees are forming new silhouettes against a morning sky with clouds as BLUE as the beloved Tuscarora just below. It is lovely, wicked April after all, teasing everyone by flirting with summer, then sending draughts chill enough to inspire a quick trip to the closet for an extra sweater, a heavier robe. Outside, one never knows when a sunny sky will suddenly cloud over and send buckets of rain, when a moonlit, starlit sky will suddenly rumble and shoot sparks to send scaredy cats such as Mrs. Teabody and her beloved Duchess Ming for cover. In spite of her drama and her whimsicality, April is a month Mrs. Teabody adores and she looks at April's waning number of days on the calendar with regret. Only six days remain. "Be bloody, bold and resolute!"

However, this is not a post about April. No, Gentle Reader, this is a post about waffles. And how Mrs. Teabody longs for one perfect waffle this slightly chilly April morning.  Mrs. Teabody is going through the seventh day of yet another one of her many, many short-lived endeavors at better nutrition -- characterized by an emphasis on fruits and vegetables and a de-emphasis on cheese, butter and cream, the very pinnacle of Mrs. Teabody's food pyramid, the holy trinity of foodstuffs. Just last Thursday morning whilst dining in a very posh restaurant, she was trying very hard to enjoy her sensible morning repast  by spinning the spinach and egg white omelette on her plate into intricate designs  when the waiter delivered the most beautiful waffle to a gentleman sitting just a metre or so away. Quelle horreur! The gentleman was an octogenarian, well-dressed, "imperially slim" and Mrs. Teabody had earlier noted his dining abandon as she watched him adding  a copious quantity of CREAM to his coffee. The waffle was placed in front of the gentleman, the waiter was thanked and the beautiful ritual of using a perfectly crisp AND tender waffle as the delivery system for quantities of lovely, melty, oozy, drippy butter began in earnest. Oh, Gentle Reader it was a thing of beauty. And the aroma! Noting Mrs. Teabody's rapture, the gentleman querried, "Madame?" to which Mrs. Teabody could only squeak, "Bon appétit!" and turn politely away looking at that green and white congealed mass on her own plate with loathing. Somehow the hour passed without further embarrassment with Mrs. Teabody sneaking furtive glances as if at some illicit but engaging ritual. All too soon, the waffle had taken residence inside the gentleman's digestive tract. He took one final swallow of cream-laced coffee, gently dabbed at his slightly smiling lips with his linen napkin and rose to leave, pausing only long enough to say, "Life is short, Madame."

Mrs. Teabody has had a very difficult time ridding herself of the memory of the waffle and the man's quip. This April morning is a perfect morning for a perfect waffle and before any one of you quips, "Go buy some Egg-ohs!" I just want to grab one of your hands and give it a gentle smacking and say, "No. No. No." Here's a little analogy to  get the "grey matter" churning:

Egg-ohs are to real waffles as:
a. cardboard is to delicate flaky pie crust
b. cardboard is to perfectly cooked choux
c. cardboard is to Dorothy Henry's homemade bread
d. cardboard is to cotton candy

Gentle Reader, Mrs. Teabody knows that YOU understand.  YOU understand because you own your own waffle iron--as did Mrs. Teabody before hers gave up the ghost a few months ago after twenty-five years of hard use. YOU understand what it is to mix eggs, flour, milk, a pinch of salt and sugar and some baking powder into a floaty bubbly batter, to heat the waffle iron until the little chef's eyes turn black, to skitter a few drops of water across the iron as an added test, to pour the bubbly batter onto the iron and listen to it sizzle and pop, to watch the batter fill the darling little square indentations, to bring down the equally sizzly lid and trap the airy fairy batter between, to note any excess batter erupt out and down the sides, to smell the ambrosial aroma and finally to lift lid to find the loveliest, honey-hued, evenly patterned creation. That is the moment Mrs. Teabody longs for this morning. Perhaps you long for such a moment as well?

Ta, Darlings! And remember, "Life is short, Madame." ( and Monsieur)