“This is gonna be fun! We can stay up late, swapping manly stories, and in the morning… I’m making waffles!” – Eddie Murphy as Donkey in ‘Shrek’
My lovely wife gave me a surprise gift a while back – a waffle iron. She managed to pick one up with some points on a store loyalty card. It is a gift filled with love because she didn’t want a waffle iron, firmly believing that, just like almost every other waffle iron on the planet, it will soon be gathering dust in a cupboard. I maintained otherwise and, though only time will tell who is right, it has had regular outings and even been used and a sandwich toaster.
I mention all this because waffles played a small but symbolic part in our emigration. On our first morning as home-less, job-less and school-less emigrants, we stepped out into the bright sunlight of a Hollywood morning. Along with Rarotonga in the Cook Islands, Los Angeles was a stopover on our way to New Zealand (mentioned briefly in this post) and, on the recommendation of LA blogger Sean Bonner, we stayed at the trendy Farmer’s Daughter in Fairfax Village. Across the street, as we discovered that first morning of our adventure, lay the Farmer’s Market and there we had the kind of breakfasts that we had only ever seen in movies. Bacon, eggs, pancakes, juice, toast, waffles – we ordered large and reveled in the strange dislocation of being between lives, eating breakfast in the world capital of make-believe.
That meal is a fond memory for me and the kids – a snapshot from our transition from inner city Londoners to rural township New Zealanders. It’s my hope that sharing Saturday morning waffles & maple syrup with the kids will become another tradition and memory to treasure.