Last Friday morning, I started making waffles for breakfast. As I was mixing the dry ingredients, I realized with a sinking heart that I had run out of baking powder. Ratso. I kept the bowl of flour and sugar and sealed it up for a later time. ( Hmmm...that sounds vaguely reminiscent of a passage in the book of Revelation...)( Or is it Daniel?)
Yesterday I went shopping and got, among other things, some baking powder. So this morning, I finished making the batter. I got out our nice little waffle iron ( an oft used and much appreciated wedding gift from the P-----'s of Chestnut Hill) and plugged it in. And nothing happened. I tried four different outlets to make sure it wasn't just a faulty outlet but to no avail. In the midst of this exercise in futility, I heard a small, moist noise. I looked around to see Brad's STUPID CAT up on the counter with his head in the bowl, lapping up the waffle batter for all he was worth. I was SO mad. And I let him know it. All my waffle making efforts- down the drain- literally.
When Grandpa came upstairs for breakfast, I told him about the issues that had prevented me from making waffles. ( He LOVES waffles so I try to make them at least once every couple of weeks.) He accepted the matter quite calmly and said, "Well, maybe the Lord didn't want us to have waffles this morning." Well, I guess NOT! I guess the Lord wants us on a strictly cold cereal breakfast regimen. Okay. Whatever. I sort of doubt divine intervention was necessary but who knows....Maybe one of the eggs was carrying some sort of mutant disease that would have reduced us to foaming at the mouth and generally carrying on in a horrifying manner. Like mad cow disease- but mad chicken disease in this case. ( But I bought special vegetarian-fed hen eggs...so I doubt this is a possibility...) I'll have to keep an eye on Stan to watch for any ill effects of the waffle batter. If he grows a third eye, I'll know that a miracle occurred and that an angel must have come and struck the waffle iron and planted the idea in Stan's head that it would be good to lick the batter, rendering it unfit for human consumption, and thereby saving us from a horrible fate. The canary in the mine thing. If I go out and buy another waffle iron and my third attempt at waffle making is somehow also foiled, I will conclude that, indeed, God wants me to give up waffles in general. Okay, maybe I'm taking it a bit far here.
Later, as I was relating the story to Brad, I complained that the worst part was that the precious ingredients had gone to waste. ( I was thinking particularly of those two vegetarian-fed-hen eggs. Those things don't come a dime a dozen. Nor do they grow on trees.) And then there was the milk and the flour and the... "Hmmmm...all of seventy fives cents worth of groceries..." was his reply. Oh. Yeah. Nothing like a good choleric husband to help you see beyond the supposed tragedy of the thing to the simple, unemotional facts of the matter. I guess I can deal with seventy five cents of loss.
Well, let me know if you see any good sales on waffle irons.
There, Aaron- how's that for a non-anecdote post? ;)