Father's Day Treat

I can hear you now - "Well, duh!" you'll say, or "You didn't know that?" with a voice of incredulity. And you'll shake your head over the fact that a woman can live as long as I have without ever trying raspberry waffles.

Father's Day was a good excuse for a knockout breakfast. We had a family emergency going on - a very, very sick infant grandson - so My Beloved's daughter Katie red-eyed to Boston to help her sister Sarah cope with the anxiety and with our four year old granddaughter. She called My Beloved on the eve of her departure to apologize for missing Father's Day this year and to set a date for a future father-daughter celebration when she returns.

When Father's Day dawned, he had no daughters in town, so I decided to try to fill the gap. I found the perfect Father's Day present - Duck Tape printed with hot rod flames - and made him waffles for breakfast. We had some raspberries in the fridge so I asked if he might like that idea. Got a big thumbs-up, so I dropped a few berries onto the waffle iron before pouring the batter and the scent of hot raspberries that wafted immediately up was a revelation in itself.

We have decided that there is nothing in this world so tasty as waffles with pockets of instant jam made by sizzling raspberries for a few steamy minutes in waffle batter. We slathered on the butter and ladled over the pure maple syrup - we are maximalists - and enjoyed every over-the-top bite.

I know, I know, it's so simple and I'm sure you have tried it eons ago while I was still thinking that the height of waffle pleasure was sour cream in the batter. But maybe you forgot how good it was and this can serve as your reminder. Father's Day may be over for another year but you can still have a treat.

And the good news is that our grandson, we call him the O-man, is doing much, much better. Fingers crossed that he goes home from the hospital this week.

At Costco? Really?

The first day we were in Belgium five years or so ago, cousin Jan took us into Brussels on the metro and introduced us in the Grande Place to Belgian waffles, hot off the waffle iron, redolent of vanilla and sugar and butter. The addiction was instant. We had at least one waffle daily for the two weeks we were there.

We've tried to find a good recipe for Belgian waffles ever since and have tried making them at home more than once. Jan even brought us pearl sugar from Belgium on a subsequent trip so we could approximate the real thing.

The real thing takes time and extra work, but it's worth it.

Still, you can imagine that the idea of true Belgian waffles, already baked for you and only in need of heating, sounds like an idea I can get behind! Jan found these at Costco. Costco? Really?*

They are called Julian's Recipe waffles and they come individually wrapped in cellophane in a larger plastic clamshell. All you do is warm them in the oven at 350 for two or three minutes, in the toaster on low setting until crisp and warm, or in a microwave on high for 15 seconds. I did mine in the oven since I have lots of time and they were darn good, sugary and toasty and scented lightly with vanilla, similar to the ones in the Grande Place.

Having said that, there is something awfully special about receiving the real deal wrapped in a little square of white parchment paper and dusted lightly with sugar from a guy who happily tells you all about his batter and his waffle iron while the fragrant steam lifts into the cold air of Brussels, surrounded by the stunning architecture of the Grande Place. That first amazing bite, when the waffle is crisp on the outside and almost creamy on the inside - it may just be the ambiance but there is nothing like it in the world.

But Julian's Recipe ain't half bad - next time you are in Costco and in need of a treat, look for these. At Costco? Really?

*I fear my snobism is showing.

Waffling

My Beloved and I love waffles. We have eaten them at restaurants as varied as the Brown Sugar Kitchen in Oakland and the Fremont Diner in Sonoma. We have made our own at home on long, lazy Sunday mornings, complete with real maple syrup, lashings of butter and the Sunday funnies. Occasionally, we even have them for dinner.

I wanted to replicate the crisp, light, cornmeal waffles they serve at the BSK so when I found a recipe online for cornmeal waffles with bacon bits, I knew we had dinner waffles in our future.

I hauled out my fastest waffle baker, an ancient appliance that can keep up with a boatload of hungry waffle lovers. I got it from The Fixer's Offerings and have loved it ever since. The electrical plug is a scary little relic and the metal switches get searingly hot during baking, but it makes a mean waffle really fast and it never sticks.

We had leftover already-crisped bacon (I know, I know - leftover bacon??? Who ever heard of such a thing?) in the fridge, so the batter went together in a snap. Ladled into the waffle iron, it emitted a fragrant steam of promise. Sadly, the resulting waffles were not light and not crisp and not anything like the ones at BSK. I didn't quite have enough bacon and the kind I had wasn't salty enough or smoky enough to give the result my mind had imagined. The corn flavor was evident, as was the rich buttermilk, so we really did enjoy the waffles but, as a copy of the BSK ones, they were a flop.

If you like buttery waffles with lots of corn and buttermilk flavor, however, we can recommend these. And, continuing to research cornmeal waffle recipes isn't exactly a hardship, is it? The journey begins here.

To Wenirs, With Love

Last fall, when I was in North Carolina, I was introduced to grits. Oh, I had tasted grits before, but they were the sort of industrial grits that are the corn equivalent to those nasty, ubiquitous frozen hash brown potatoes that don't even taste like potatoes that you get in so many diners and Denny's.

In North Carolina, however, you can get real grits - grits with body and flavor, grits mixed with cheese or topped with rapidly-melting butter, a side dish that actually adds something to the plate. I hadn't found grits like that here in NOCA until My Beloved and I went for breakfast at the Brown Sugar Kitchen in Sweet West Oakland.

West Oakland might not strike most people as "sweet." On our way there from Summit Medical Center, we drove through some pretty dilapidated and mean residential neighborhoods to find the Brown Sugar Kitchen in a solidly industrial area. When we arrived around 9:30am, there were a few seats; by the time we left, there was a line out the door. On a Tuesday, no less. Apparently, the food is worth the lack of ambiance in the 'hood.

Once inside, the tenor was actually pretty nice. Cheerful music, the clatter of dishes from the open kitchen and the buzz of conversation in the room combined to heighten our anticipation. We don't usually like noisy restaurants but at the Brown Sugar Kitchen, it's a cheerful vibe. The tables are small and close together but it feels cosy rather than crowded. In the sugar bowl on the table, only packets of brown sugar and on the long counter with seats all filled were pretty sophisticated small fresh flower arrangements, nice touches that signaled this was going to be a good meal.

There on the menu were grits with cheddar cheese; of course, I had to order it. When it arrived, I was pleased to note that the cheese is not dyed orange - it's the color of milk. You'd think that was a given, but so many places use the orange stuff. Cheese was sprinkled on top but it was also in the main body of the grits, as it was cheesy all the way through. A little drift of fresh herbs on top was a nice touch, too. The grits themselves were the creamy kind with very little in the way of texture. I have a preference for the hearty grind that gives a little chewing exercise but these were tasty enough to make up for it.

My Beloved ordered the Brown Sugar Kitchen's signature dish, waffles and fried chicken with apple cider syrup. We both swooned over the waffle, which is made with cornmeal and is as light and crisp as a new dollar bill. Buttered with their cinnamon butter, it was crazy-good. The chicken was fried exactly right - very juicy on the inside, crisp on the outside, and the syrup was quite good, too, but we agreed - either waffles or fried chicken next time, not both, and syrup on chicken is just wrong.

My friend Wenirs hates my posts about grits - she'd rather eat a bug than a bowl of grits. So, I just had to give her a little razzmatazz with my latest post about them. Hi, Wenirs! When you next come for a visit, I'll take you to the Brown Sugar Kitchen, but you can stick to the waffles, which you will love. I promise, no grits.

Seeking The Belgian Grand Prix

Ever since My Beloved and I spent two weeks in Belgium several years ago, we have been Belgiumophiles.

We love moules frites with lemon mayonnaise. We swoon over Belgian chocolates - a single piece is enough to send you to heaven - even the imported kind that really aren't as good as the fresh ones they sell in La Belle Belgique. We are thrilled when we come across Belgian beers, or bottled water from Spa. We have longing memories of the Café Liègeois we enjoyed on our trip to Spa to see where the Belgian Grand Prix is raced.

And every time we see someone selling a supposedly "Belgian" waffle, we have to try it. We have stood in line at the waffle truck at the Marin farmer's market - pretty good, but not the real deal. The street food waffles we had in the Grand Place in Brussels were both richer and lighter at the same time. The search continues.

Fast forward to early last Friday morning when I was walking briskly down Market Street in San Francisco between Powell and McAllister, not the world's prettiest neighborhood to say the least, when the scent coming from the former loan shark storefront transported me in an instant back to the Grand Place. Waffles!

If you have experienced that particular part of the world, you will know that "mid-Market" is not in any way reminiscent of Brussels' stunning central square. The street people of mid-Market are likely to panhandle you, even at 8:30 in the morning. Or to shout obscenities at a woman in one of the apartments above who won't come to the window. Or to relieve their bladders against a newspaper kiosk in full view of the passersby. Mid-Market is its own little world, separate from any other part of San Francisco. As the charming young man baking waffles put it, "Welcome to mid-Market, where every day there is a full moon."

I almost walked on past the waffle kiosk but, oh, that smell! Vanilla and yeast and pearl sugar - it's simply irresistible. I doubled back and engaged the waffle guy in shared memories of Belgium while my waffle wafted fragrant steam around us. He had the urban grunge look down pat - black hoodie, black pants, black goatee, black hair - but the more we chatted the more he revealed about his travels and his clearly upscale background. We enjoyed a conversation of exclamations - "Moules frites!" and "Yes! Yes! and lemon mayonnaise!" and "Spa Reine water!" reveling in our mental fantasies.

I can recommend this as a way to start the work day. A fresh waffle, lightly dusted with sugar and heavily sprinkled with pleasurable memories sets you up for a great day. I may not have found the Holy Grail of Belgian waffles yet but this one came close and I know the real deal is out there somewhere just waiting to be discovered, if not in mid-Market then on a return visit to Belgium.

Sweet, Sticky Memories

Whenever I have waffles, whether for breakfast or for dinner, I am swamped by family memories; we Hylands have eaten waffles for as long as I can remember.

As children, our Dad would take us to church on Sundays and Mom would stay home and make waffles. It was her quiet time during the week when she was relieved of four lively children and had only the fairly simple chore of making waffle batter. Her recipe came from the Joy of Cooking - she even beat the egg whites separately to make sure the waffles were crisp and light.

We came home from church roaring hungry (in those days, one did not eat before Mass) and Dad would pour the batter into the preheated waffle iron while Mom warmed the syrup. When I was a kid, the syrup came in a small metal can shaped and colored like a log cabin.

My younger brother was a picky eater, something that simply baffled the rest of us eager trenchermen. For many years, he refused vociferously to eat almost anything except Gerber baby pears in a jar, thinly sliced peanut butter sandwiches (no jelly!), the tops of broccoli (no stems!), thin asparagus, shrimp cocktail and waffles. Since we couldn't afford shrimp cocktail very often, waffles were my mother's secret for getting some protein into the kid in the form of eggs.

Later in life, when I was a guest at my friend Wenirs' house, she would make sour cream waffles. If you've never tried sour cream waffles, you are missing one of life's true pleasures. Spread with unsalted butter and drenched in syrup, they are all I plan to eat when I get to Heaven.

All my working life, waffles have been my fallback dinner when I couldn't face cooking anything complicated after a long day at the florist shop. I'd mix up some waffle batter, fry a little bacon or sausage and voilà, you've got dinner. First Husband wasn't too sure about that but he was careful not to ruffle my feathers when I'd been on my feet for 14 hours at a clip.

These days, I'm a lazy waffle maker - I use the stuff in the bright yellow box. Poured into my recycled waffle iron, the batter changes miraculously and emerges crisp and light in just a few minutes. For Christmas this year we received a bottle of pure maple syrup from My Beloved's brother who lives in New England, the origin of the very best maple syrup. Light amber and runnier than other syrups, this is literally the food of the gods - nothing beats real maple syrup.

When I lived in western New York, each spring we would drive down to the Southern Tier of New York state to visit our favorite maple syrup farmer. We would stand in the thin sunshine of the early spring chill discussing the state of the sugar bush, the yield from the trees and the cost of the jugs of syrup we always bought for gifts as well as for ourselves. One year, when my older brother was the Naval Attaché at the American embassy in Paris, we bought many small jugs and shipped them to my brother's wife in France who sold them at a charity sale and raised a record amount of money for their good works. Our farmer friend still talks about the time his syrup was shipped all the way to France.

Whenever I bite into buttery, syrupy waffles, I am flooded with these sweet, sticky memories. They are a big part of the reason I love waffles.

Valentine Waffles

My Beloved spoils me. It's true. He makes a big deal out of my birthday every year and, in between, finds hundreds of other ways to show his affection. I know just how lucky I am.

He started my birthday this year with heart-shaped waffles, complete with Bisquick and real maple syrup.

He learned how to make waffles while his daughters were still little girls; they are grownups now, but he still likes to make waffles every now and then and remember how his tiny Katie would put away many more waffles at a sitting than his bigger girl, Sarah.

This waffle iron, one of three that I own, was a gift years ago from my friend Wenirs, who couldn't resist the lure of heart-shaped waffles - she comes from a long line of wafflers, too, and her sour cream waffles are to die for. She makes them for us when we visit her in Michigan.

When I was growing up, my mother made waffles from scratch while we were at church with my Dad. He'd shush us when we got restless, put what seemed to us to be enormous donations in the offering basket and, even when we were very small children, let us drive home steering while seated on his lap as he worked the clutch and gas pedals. I think it was his way of giving Mom a morning off, as we all got to take turns behind the wheel if we had been good in church and that took some time.

Mom also made waffles, very occasionally, when she was sick to death of cooking and couldn't face the stove. Then, she'd put pieces of bacon in the waffle batter and call it a meal. Needless to say, this was one of our all-time favorites, generally served when Dad was out to sea.

Our syrup came in a little tin can shaped like a log cabin; when I moved to Western New York, however, I learned the joy of real maple syrup and have never looked back. It's a pricey luxury but one for which I am more than willing to pay.

When I eat waffles these days, all these little associations come back with each sweet, sticky bite. They all make waffles for a birthday breakfast one of the very best ways to spoil a girl. Husbands, lovers and significant others, take note!