Grand Theft Waffle Iron



From Kyle Katz' Vintage Cookbook Covers and Illustrations

      I accidentally developed a waffle that is hallucinogenic.
     As usual, I blame this one on my wife.  At the end of a 12 hour road trip that was capped by a funeral and some rather unpleasant family drama, I dragged my road-weary body into the house and collapsed on the couch.  Knowing that comfort food would serve as a "pick-me-up" my lovely bride offered to make me a waffle.  Of course, by all means, let us feast upon the beauty of the modern American waffle!  I nearly lept off the couch with joy in my heart and a spring in my step, the hint of a joyful tear misting the corner of my eye.
     At one point I had actually done the math, and it went something like this.  On the average in our household we eat 3.5 boxes of frozen waffles every month.  When you multiply that by 4 kids and one hungry father, and then divide the square of the root by one wife who rarely eats breakfast, and round up to account for statistical variations based on the wobble of the Earth's orbit and the phase of the moon, what you get is a lot of frozen waffles.  We consume enough frozen waffles that Wal-Mart's board of directors sends our household Christmas cards every year, the Vermont Maple Sugar Makers Association (VMSMA) wants to name its scholarship program after our kids.  We were once disqualified from a contest where the prize was a year's supply of butter, there weren't enough cows to produce what we would have used.  We eat a LOT of frozen waffles.

     As I started to share the details of my day with my bride, I expected to see her unburden the freezer of a box of pre-made, frozen waffles.  Imagine my surprise then when I saw a real live waffle maker sitting on the kitchen counter.  This was the heavy duty waffle maker you see in hotels, the kind where the kids can pre-measure the waffle batter, drop the top, flip the handle, and have a perfectly made waffle in three minutes.  This was the waffle maker that bards sing of.  I thought I even heard of chorus of angels chanting as the night parted and a beam of sunlight reflected off of the brushed nickle finish.
     I checked the frame for a metal tag that I supposed would have read, "Property of La Quinta."
     "Where did this come from?  Did we borrow this from the neighbors, or steal it from the new hotel in town?"
     My wife grinned incredulously and quipped, "You got this for me on Mother's Day a couple of years ago! Don't you remember?"
     Clearly I didn't remember.  Who could blame me?  After all the boxes of card board flavored fake waffles, the hours I spent slaving over a hot toaster to make waffles for all the members of the tribe... And besides, this marvel of modern machinery sitting before me still gleamed in the sunlight, having been used so little and stored away some in the family archives, it still has that new car smell to it.  At my age, a couple of years ago could have been when Miami Vice was still in production.
     Now I had a choice to make.  I could either say something really stupid to my wife about why in the world haven't we been having waffles for at least one meal a day?  Surely she didn't think that this waffle maker was like the Holy Grail, of such significance that it must be hidden away and shielded from the eyes of the non-believers?
     For once, I made the right decision.  Rather than brow-beating the woman who was making me a waffle (and who was also the only person that knew at this point what had gone into the batter), I proposed a little contest that would ensure that the waffle maker got used at least once a week for the remainder of the young summer.
     It was time for a gourmet waffle cook-off!  I launched into creation mode, throwing open cabinets and drawers.  Nothing was off-limits, fruit, vegetables, adult beverages, pieces of Barbi dolls that were laying around.  All the racket woke the children, the baby cried as though she had finally seen the monster under her bed lounging on the couch reading Cosmo.  I expected them to jump for joy at the discovery of the long lost waffle maker.  They were not nearly as excited as I.
     Once my waffle hang-over recedes, I will learn to make real live waffles for the children.  Although the Wal-Mart board is broken hearted, the VMSMA is rejoicing...

Breakfast with the Great Gatsby

     I think I inadvertently introduced my children to class warfare.

One of the boys, peering longingly at the ChrisCraft collection.

     A friend of mine recently gave me the heads up about a Car and Boat show at one of the local marinas on locally renowned Eagle Mountain Lake. Free admission, free hot dogs, great times promised for all! While I certainly like cars and boats, I really like free stuff.  When faced with the option of either spending Saturday morning doing chores at the house, or being outside doing anything other than chores AND that carried the promise of free hot dogs, the children by extension decided they like cars and boats as well.
     With the wife off playing bride's maid for the day, I loaded the children into the Nissan Urban Assault vehicle and off to the marina we went.  The red-flags popped up immediately, and I guess I should have seen trouble coming.  On the drive over, I had a very enlightening conversation with the blond-headed teenage member of the tribe.  She has decided she wants to go on a trip to Washington DC next year and learn something about the nation's history.  To prevent putting the cart before the horse, we have a chat about her general understanding of US history, and more specifically, about US government.  Within 15 minutes, I was red faced and spewing forth about the failure of the public school system.  (In defense of public schools, my sons who are quite a bit younger, were able to answer or guess at most of my questions.  It could be that the blond headed child has simply entered the early stages of teen age insanity that will grip her and force from her all reason and logic, until she reaches the age that she starts paying her own bills.)
     As I wound down from my diatribe, I noticed that the scenery had changed dramatically.  The houses bordering the narrow road were larger and better kept.  A hint of professional landscaping was in the air.  Children were clean and well-fed, parents were relaxed and happy behind their wrought iron gates, unicorns danced joyously among the pots of gold at the end of the rainbow.
     The "marina" as it turned out, is a private boat club fully stocked with a guard shack, a stop sign, and a golf cart for high-speed pursuit.  Other than the cars set up for the car show, I am pretty sure our Nissan troop transport was the oldest car in the place.
     We made a pass through the cars on display first.  There were the requisite number of American muscle cars, some of which the kids could name from memory.  They suddenly came to a screeching halt though when we got to a pair of vehicles manufactured by Triumph.  The steering wheel was on the wrong side.  There was a seat in the trunk.  I could almost hear the boys snickering, "Silly Brits."  While I tried to focus on the wood paneling and the difference in engineering, the boys were looking at a second Triumph, one appointed as a limo.  The boys pointed to some thing in a cup holder in the back seat area, and asked what kind of drink was waiting its passenger.
     "That is no drink boys, that is fancy mustard called Grey Poupon."
     The cynic inside me rolled his eyes.  Grey Poupon.  Really?  The boys really started snickering at the name.  I grimaced at the vehicle's owner and suggested to him that I was chaperoning underprivileged children that belonged to someone else.  Anyone else.

This was the only boat at the show that we could afford, and
even that with significant financing.

     We quickly moved on to the boats, which really stole the show.  ChrisCraft boats.  Loads of wooden trim.  Stylishly appointed.  Beautiful to behold.  I have been secretly working on a project to obtain a boat for the family, which the kids are vaguely aware of.  The boys suggested I make an offer on one of these lovely gems.  The cynic inside me was crying from laughing so hard.  One of the ChrisCraft did bear a "For Sale" sign.  But it was as old as I am, had no wood trim, and looked like an extra from a 1970's version of Miami Vice.  And it was $15,000.  My inner cynic was rolling on the floor. Er, well, the pier anyway.
     Nearing lunch time now, the kids were looking towards the well-appointed buffet line, having temporarily forgotten the acquisition of a boat.  That's when the day fell completely apart.  Buffet line.  No hot dogs.  Money is changing hands.  Stacks of chocolate chip cookies were at the end of the buffet line, beckoning my children like the finish line at the end of a marathon.  I thought I was going to have to wrestle the three year old to the ground when I saw the sign that said, in brutal finality, "Buffet - $8.00 a plate".  I hadn't stopped for cash, given the promise of FREE HOT DOGS.
     Now we were on the verge of a crisis.  The three year old has her mother's temper, and she had been promised free stuff.  She had seen the cookies and nearly had them in her tiny little grasp.  This was not going to end well.  A hundred dancing bottles of Grey Poupon did a shuffle through my head, taunting me with the free hot dogs that never were.
     Desperate to avoid a confrontation with the security guard, I quietly told the kids we could get snow cones, if we left right that instant.  Snow cones, the elixir of life.  The treat that trumps everything with the exception of home made ice cream.  The children happily chirped out their orders: cherry, rainbow, spider man...  When it came my turn to order, I paused for a moment, and unable to stop myself, asked the little snow cone girl, "Do you have any Grey Poupon?"

Breakfast on the Trail - pt 2

Best flight instructor, ever.

     I used to be the "fun" parent.  I once bought one of those discount rate introductory "flight lessons" just so my two oldest daughters could fly in a small private aircraft.  Every kid should fly at least once.  Now I am the guy who tells his kids not to walk briskly with the scissors while I put miniature corks on the end of each one of the forks in the flatware tray. I'm not sure when I became that guy, although it could have been in Rod Schoen's Torts class in law school where I learned all of the gruesome things that people can do to themselves, or to each other.  I think that was also when I developed my irrational fear of lightning, pencil erasers, and the Cincinnati Bengals.  (One of my dedicated readers, Tammy York, author of 60 Hikes within 60 Miles: Cincinnati, assures me that I have far more to fear from Les Nessman than I do the Bengals).
     So I wasn't overly surprised to have been the wet blanket once we hit the trail.  Descending from the "trail head" at Sansom Park, there is some fairly rocky terrain and the going can be steep when you have lots of small kids in tow.  We managed to get all of the kiddos to flat ground without piling up at the bottom of the hill ala' Three Stooges style.  Within minutes we emerged from the trees and crossed the main trail to admire the local water feature.  And that is when my latent over-protective parenting kicked in.

     While we stood on the point overlooking the water, and admiring the waterfall on the far side of the river, my oldest son jumped over the edge onto the outcropping about 5 feet below us.  From where I stood, the ledge he was standing on looked about 4 inches wide.  Without missing a beat my successor to the throne, the heir apparent, simultaneously starts throwing rocks into the water with one hand while handing rocks up to the three year old so that she could join in the fun as well.  Like any three year old, when she throws, her whole body tends to follow and I had images of her pirouetting into the murky water some ten feet below.  Meanwhile, my son had started jumping on the edge of his own precipice, seeing how much of his own foothold he could kick into the water.  I could feel the back of my neck tingling and was certain a stray bolt of lightning was seeking me out.
     All of the splashing and thrashing about, aside from irritating all the anglers near the waterfall, had stoked the interest of all types of wildlife.  Turtles started to surface and looked to be putting together a pool to see which kid would fall into the water first.  Fish were jumping about.  Then other unidentifiable bits of nature started to circulate our direction.  We have about a gazillion poisonous snakes in the immediate area. There are alligators around here. Or maybe they are crocodiles.  We have jackalopes.  Between Lockheed Martin and the winged members of the US Armed Forces, I am certain there are several nuclear devices, unmanned submarines, and laboratory-developed mermaids armed with assault rifles in the lake that feeds this little stream.  When I spotted the half-alligator, half-chupacabra licking its lips, it was time to go.
     Returning to the trail, we forged ahead into the trees looking for better access to the water and for connecting trails that run along side the Trinity River.  Within just a few moments though, the trail and the flowing water diverged.  Ahead of us I could hear a deep, pulsating grumbling.  Whatever it was, it sounded like it was directly in front of us.  We weren't far from the home of the locally infamous Goat Man, another concern never far from my mind.  The noise was growing louder.

This grainy photo, taken while I was at a full-trot and pushing kids
out of my way, shows an abandoned lean-to formerly inhabited
by the Lake Worth Goat man.  It might even have been the location
 for the Blair Witch Project.  Really.

      Just off the trail, I discovered the remainder of a primitive lean-to. I am fairly certain I saw the little totems and decorations used on the Blair Witch Project hanging from nearby trees.  I shuddered as the growl continued to grow in front of us.  Fortunately, the small children all seemed oblivious to either the growing noise or the lean-to village.  I could hear something in the woods behind me shadowing us.  I realized that a half-alligator/half-chupacabra, aside from being amphibious, would be an ideal hunting partner for the Goat Man.  The deep growling was just ahead of us now, right around the next bend.  Whatever was creeping up behind us was getting closer.  It sounded as though the entire Cincinnati Bengal line backer core was having tackling drills on a giant base drum.  I bravely decided to allow my wife to lead the group forward.
     As we turned made the bend, the growling, grumbling colossus revealed itself.  Through the chain link fence separating Sansom Park from the nearest residence, turning and twisting and thrashing and clamoring, stood the biggest, dirtiest, meanest looking... central air conditioning unit I had ever seen.  So maybe it wasn't the Goat Man, but I am still certain his chupacabra blood hound was stalking us.
     Ten minutes later we stopped for breakfast on the trail, rather than becoming breakfast on the trail.  Thankfully, the kids were none the wiser to the grave danger we stared down that fateful morning.  Good thing they had me there to protect them.  Really.
   

Breakfast on the Trail - part 1

     So, here it is Spring again, and I am parenting MacGyver style. 
     Now that Barge Pilot is in the final stages of production (insert polite golf clap here), I have some time on my hands and thought that maybe I should devote some of that time to my children.  I was recently inspired by that hiking roustabout Andrew Skurka and realized that breakfast could only be better on a local trail, watching the sun rise over the D/FW metroplex, greeting the day when everything was fresh and shiny and new. My mind raced at the possibilities, granola and fruit while lounging by the water, or maybe we would huddle under a grove of trees and cook... well, something over a quaint campfire. If I played my cards right, maybe I could even use the trip as a justification to buy Skurka's book, The Ultimate Hiker's Gear Guide: Tools and Techniques to Hit the Trail. This was going to be a trip to remember.
     In order to match up all the different schedules, all we needed to do was to be up, get dressed, find flashlights, find the battery stash, replace the dead batteries in the flashlight with fresh ones that we would pick up along the way, gas the Nissan troop transport, buy the breakfast ingredients, pick up the niece and nephew, allow ten minutes for a wrong turn and step onto the trail about 8:00 a.m. No problem.
     About ten minutes before 9:00, I rolled out of bed in dire need of coffee and donuts. It was clear that, in true MacGyver fashion, we were going to have to creatively adapt to the new situation. In my case, that meant quietly waking the boys and getting them dressed so that we could sneak out of the house without the female members of the tribe and still have some hope of finishing the breakfast hike before sunset.
     I think it was the jingle of the keys that woke the three year old, right before she ran out of her bedroom yelling something that sounded like, "I want to go Daddy! Please good father, do not employ your silly mis-directions to trick me into going into another room while you and my brothers steal away without me." Well, it sounded like that to me anyway.

In the distant background, Lockheed Martin and the drums
of war. Somewhere in the woods lurks Goat Man.

     So we waited as the women folk donned hiking attire; curled, straightened, dyed then bleached hair; changed outfits; located sunglasses; changed outfits again; made several phone calls; changed outfits again; and, just prior to loading into the Nissan, wondered out loud why weren' t we boys ready to go yet.  A quick stop for 5 gallons of gas (about $100), and some quick trail snacks (it was too late even for brunch), a pit stop to pick up the niece and nephew and at long last... TRAIL BOUND!
     In the spirit of minimizing our "carbon footprint" with the Nissan Battalion, we chose Sansom Park which isn't too far from the house.  The park is in sore need of a good cleaning, but it has some great hiking trails.  The area is locally renowned for its proximity to Lockheed Martin, and not incidentally, localized sightings of the infamous Goat Man.  More importantly, given the encroaching sun, the park is close to lots of places to get a late lunch...
    
    Join me for Part 2 of Breakfast on the Trail, where we herd 6 small kids over a rocky descent, share a stirring moment with 3 strangers, two turtles, and a half-alligator/half-chupacabra, battle the Goat Man, all while in search of the perfect breakfast spot!

Barge Pilot - Just around the corner!

Haven't really had time for breakfast lately, what with the dodging the tornadoes and making a living and such.  Oh, and there is that little issue of finishing up my first novel, Barge Pilot, which I hope to have to the publisher in a week or so. I do have the proof copy of the cover though, so that excites me greatly!

The proof version of the cover for forthcoming novel Barge Pilot.  My good friend and unpaid editor David Swanson liked the alternative version, so if course this cover was the natural choice.

By way of fair warning and full disclosure, Barge Pilot is not the same kind of fare that you will find in this blog.  Barge Pilot is a lot darker, and there aren't as many happy endings as I hope you will find here.  My younger children won't be reading it anytime soon...  I have been reading a book lately that you may find entertaining, Learn Me Good by John Pearson.  It appears that Pearson also has a follow up, titled Learn Me Gooder.  Maybe that will be my present to myself after I get Barge Pilot completed.  If you can forgive this shameless self-promotion, breakfast should resume by the end of the week!

Coupes and crepes

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     "What is a crepe, and why should I eat one?"
     Suddenly the one-liners from Talladega Nights came flooding to mind. Not wanting my father to start a scene, I told him, "It is a fancier wrap for your breakfast burrito, just without the burrito."
     The crepes suggestion had started off as a bad joke, but was taking on a life of it's own.  Following breakfast, me and dear old Dad were headed to the Dallas Auto Show.  Since I tend to make fun of anyone or anything related to Dallas, and knowing that I couldn't even afford the concession prices at the auto show, never mind the vehicles on display, I was looking for some way to have a little fun with the subject matter.  For all I knew, any car show in Dallas might feature food servers dressed like Larry the Cable Guy walking around with platters of pate'.  Somehow crepes for breakfast just seemed the perfect connection to get the day started.  Dear old dad was not convinced, and stuck with his breakfast burrito order.  I thought I would have some fun with the waitress and ordered crepes for myself.  When she gazed towards the windows, looking awfully confused, that's when I realized she thought I was ordering drapes.
     "Not drapes, dear.  Crepes, you know breakfast crepes."
     "We gotta fruit salad, but no grapes."
     "I don't want grapes.  You know, crepes, those fancy thin pancakes with a filling in the middle?"
     "Fancy pancakes?  You some kind a Jean Girard fan or something? You know he ain't a real race car driver, don't ya sugar?"
     "Never mind, just bring me a breakfast burrito.  Hold the burrito and put in some fruit salad and whipped cream instead."
     An hour later, we are standing in line at that Dallas Auto Show, waiting for the doors to open.  Staff members were scurrying around trying to handle last minute preparations before the show started.  One guy was running around up front barking orders into his walkie talkie and pointing at people in an alarmingly threatening manner.  Clearly he was the head honcho.  I know this because he had an ID badge with his picture on it, with the caption, "Head Honcho."
     The Head Honcho spied the two of us at the edges of the well-heeled crowd, and clearly we were not part and parcel of the show-goers.  He pointed at the two of us in an alarmingly threatening manner.  Dad smiled and waved, I started looking at the floor, suddenly intensely interested in the floor wax.  Head Honcho charged at the two of us, pointing now with multiple fingers on both hands.
     "You two! Why are you standing around, get over there and grab your mops!"  Dad smiled and waved again, like he was in on some private joke with Head Honcho.  I pushed him to the side door where Head Honcho was pointing, which was propped open by one of those mobile janitor work stations with the trash can in the middle and the mop bucket on the front end.  Safely inside, I pulled the cart in behind us, and let the door slam closed before Head Honcho could make eye contact again.  With eyes adjusting to the light, I could make out a small platoon of Larry the Cable guy lookalikes scurrying around with silver trays filled with pimento cheese finger sandwiches.  A few looked our way, but we looked close enough to Larry that they believed us to be one of them.
     Dad was already headed towards the large exhibit room where the cars were on display.  Since I didn't have a ticket, a ticket stub, or a badge that said Head Honcho, I grabbed a mop in case anyone asked how I got into the exhibit hall.  To my horror, Dad found the last remaining Segway reserved for security guards, and took off into the midst of the exhibit at full speed.  Fortunately, I had exited the staff quarters right behind one of the aisles where the non-vehicular exhibits were set up.  Sandwiched in between a satellite TV vendor and a travel agent, was a group of electric wheelchairs.  I jumped on one at the end of the row and took off after the old man, the broom handle firmly jammed in the seat and the broom up in the air like the orange safety flag on a child's bike.  I turned the corner, and the broom nearly knocked a Scion off of its low hanging perch above me.  I pulled the broom handle out of the seat and laid the broom out in front of my wheelchair.  As I forged into the crowd, I imagined that I looked like I was heading into a geriatric jousting tournament.
     Even though the Segway was much faster than my wheelchair, the old man wasn't hard to track.  I simply had to follow the trail of freshly scraped paint, busted rear view mirrors, and the parade of Larry the Cable Guy lookalikes that had been knocked to the floor by the marauding Segway.  I could hear security running along behind me, and it wouldn't take long for them to catch up.
     Fortunately, it didn't take long to find dad.  He was shoe-horning himself into a roadster that was about three sizes too small for him.  When I finally talked him out of the roadster, I was ready to call it a day and head home.  And we might have made it to, had we not found the concession stand.
     "Look there, son.  They serve crepes!"
     We never stood a chance.

The True Spirit of Breakfast

Breakfast all day. I couldn't agree more...

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