I realize this image is rather earthy: a warm buckwheat and blueberry waffle resting asymmetrically on a pedestrian paper plate, its blueberries warning of dark caverns filled with butter and pure maple syrup–a bite of hot crust that envelops the tang of hidden fruit.
Waffles and fall are the best of friends.
Today is the first day of fall, my favorite time of year, a season during which I summon all of the innocence and joy still in my heart while I stir the flour, the egg, the oil, and Luca’s honey into the batter of my childhood.
The early morning smell of the marine layer still hovers in my memory, stimulating me, like injected adrenaline, to run like the dickens in a gold hooded sweatshirt on a vacant Capitola beach, assisted in lunacy by hundreds of seagulls circling and calling to each other in a deafening ocean symphony. I call back!
My mother’s waffles, Belgian squares of heat and sweet, send me off to school where I run around like a little filly full of energy and oats. Oh to have a mother here, to make me waffles!
The days darken. I’m ten years old. At bedtime the fallen leaves blow in dried and crackling circles outside my window on Mayfield Drive. I listen like an owl to their scratchy melody and anticipate my birthday, Halloween, and Thanksgiving. I have so much to look forward to!
Even today, I welcome fall with open arms and a waffle.