I’m embarrassed to admit that I’d never eaten a real waffle until this past July.
All my life, waffles were meager, frozen squares that came in those flimsy yellow boxes stacked neatly in the freezer section of the grocery. The chosen box went from the grocer’s freezer to our freezer, taking up prime space that could be used for better things (ice cream, maybe?). Reaching for a cold square or two, I always heard, “Leggo my Eggos!” sing-songing in my head.
(If you need proof that marketing works, I’m a fantastic example.)
My kids used to eat those waffles, hot from the toaster, out of hand, as they finished their morning routine before school. No syrup, just plain, tasteless waffle.
I feel sad about that now.
A handful of days at the beach are like cheap therapy for me. Well, not so cheap, really. There are costs to consider: the cost of the beach house rental, the house and pet sitter fees, dinners out, the cost of gas…
But still. It’s therapy. It’s good for me.
Each day, I awoke, grudgingly, shortly after sunrise, sunlight streaming through the white shades in the lilac-walled master bedroom. The sounds of the kids whispering in the hallway and clopping up the stairs was enough to get my mind moving, anticipating the day ahead. Breakfast was boxed cereal on most days, but on that special first morning, we were treated to gooey slices of Julia’s cream-cheese-stuffed french toast. Hours at the beach, sweaty and sandy with salt-pinched skin, were followed by cool dips in the lap pool and lunch breaks in the crisp, air-conditioned beach house.