Waffled Weekends

Growing up, I'd wait for the weekend with bated breath and high expectations. It wasn't because I got a two-day vacation from the monotony that was school, or the fact that I could sleep in past 6 a.m. No, I was psyched for the weekends because I knew I'd wake up Saturday morning to this:

Or this:

There is nothing like the aroma of a fresh, weekend breakfast. For two mornings out of the week, I didn't have to grab a fistful of cereal and a too-ripe banana on my hurriedly destructive way to the bus stop. These mornings, my mom passed the spatula to my dad, who, having been quite the formidable bachelor before he settled down, was the undisputed breakfast king in our house.

I remember thinking of my dad as a spatula master, making pancakes in any shape or size desired. My favorite? The mermaid pancakes he'd flip onto my plastic Ariel plate as I'd patter into the living room and watch the morning cartoons (preferably of the Disney variety).

Tell anyone I still do this today, and I'll deny it.

My mom couldn't quite keep herself away from the kitchen--it was as if the mess my father created called to her. She'd follow behind him, clucking with smothered annoyance as she threw cracked eggshells down the garbage disposal and Windex-ed up spilled maple syrup. 

"Clean up as you go!" she'd admonish him, standing there with her hair going every which way and her glasses perched on her nose.

"It'll get cleaned up, Dina!" he'd exclaim, wiping his hands (which were usually covered in batter) on his flannel, checkered pajama bottoms.

"Ugh, now I have to wash those," my mother would sigh. Then she'd stick out her hand. "Give them to me now. I'll run a wash."

He'd look at her like she just asked him to put his hand in the blender.

"I'm not giving them to you right now!" he'd exclaim, as the eggs he'd abandoned in the pan slowly started to smoke.

"The stain will set!" my mom would whine.

I'd get fresh eggs and an extra pancake, and all was well in my mind. 

There was something reliable about this Saturday morning routine. I always knew what to expect, and the predictability was comforting. I loved waking up to the warm aromas, prickling my nose a little earlier than I'd like, but it would roll me out of bed just the same. While I no longer have my dad around every weekend to flip some flapjacks or griddle up some waffles for me every weekend in my Philadelphia apartment, whenever I go home for the weekend, I insist on my Saturday morning routine.

And he always happily obliges.

Photos courtesy of Google Images.