Everybody Needs a Waffle Iron

Years ago for Christmas, after the usual assurances that, if the gift wasn't perfect, we were perfectly welcome to exchange it, yadda-yadda, my grandmother gave us a waffle iron. Because, as she said, everyone needs a waffle iron. Never mind that, in all my growing-up years, my mother never made me a home-made waffle, or that Mikey and I, newly-weds at the time, found the the idea of making waffles borderline insane. So, given her implied blessing, we exchanged it for a Salad Shooter. Because, you know, everyone needs one of those.

Orpha Ogg (Grandma), Darla Hapgood (Mom) and Me!
Only two of us are known to have ever made waffles.

Two years later, guess what we unwrapped? Yep, and we kept that one.

Last week, when my youngest son seemed once again disappointed that our meager breakfast offerings ended with cereal and/or toast, I asked him, "Well, what would you like? Name it, and I'll get it."

He said, "Waffles would be nice."

Bear in mind, my children have not lived poor, waffle-less lives. We've had waffles a-plenty--those nice, frozen ones that taste a little like the cardboard box they came in. But the moment Charlie made his wishes known, I knew I'd be bringing out the waffle iron. And, oh, how yummy the house smelled this morning with the steam pouring out; how beautiful the stack of big, golden waffles piling on the plate. All those years ago, Grandma told me that everyone needs a waffle iron; it wasn't until today that I realized how very right she had been.

Today is Grandma's 92nd birthday. What an honor and a blessing to have her in my life. She is a tiny, strong, feisty woman. Think of a brunette Betty White minus the vulgarity--because my grandma is a lady with hair that has naturally refused to go gray. She's the sole Democrat at the Sunday dinner table, which keeps our conversation clear of politics--partly becasue we don't want to offend her; partly because we're afraid she'll convert us. I've never seen her back down from a fight, but I've never seen her gloat in glory. She loves the Lord; she loved her husband for more than 50 years, loving him with the same giggling spark today even though the Lord she loves took him home 23 years ago. She makes an amazing cucumber salad (which I've never been able to replicate) and these thick, home-made noodles that make you weep for the Old Country--even if you don't know exactly what the Old Country is. And--we serve our noodles on a bed of mashed potatoes. That's right. Carb-on-carb. Take a lesson, kiddos.

I think Grandma has enjoyed a near-century of health and happiness because everything she is can be summed up in one statement: Everybody needs a waffle iron. Seek simplicity. Love your family. Stick to your principles. Eat a good breakfast.

And the next day? Do it again.

Our Joe

For those of you who have read Saturdays with Stella, you know what a treasure she is to us. And, if you subscribe to my newsletter, you know that, just over a year ago, we inherited another dog...Joe. Joe belonged to my father-in-law, Wayne, and when Wayne passed away last year, Joe became part of our inheritence. He is, in many ways, like Wayne. Gruff and stubborn, he moves around with a distinctive limp. When we first brought Joe into our household, I admit I was less than enthusiastic. My standard line was this: "The bad news is, he weighs 85 pounds; the good news is, he's 13 years old."

In recent weeks, though, Joe's health has taken a sharp decline. He's obviously in a great deal of pain. In fact, he moves only from the door, to his big pillow, to the food dish, and back. His evening walks are little more than a few steps out of our alley gate, and he returns from that exhausted. He's relentlessly incontinent, and intermittently aggeressive. So, it's time.

It's a huge, grave, daunting responsibility to hold the life of another creature in your hands. Dog or not, Joe embodies a lifetime of memories with us. I remember his puppyhood--even though his "puppy" size was enough to knock over my then-toddler sons. I remember him running head-first into the van door when I shut it against his invasion. Tiny little dent, there--in the door, not his head. I remember him running through cattle fields on my inlaws' land, tearing down the drive to usher in the visiting family (I was always terrified we'd run him over). Most of all, though, I remmber the days and weeks and months after my mother-in-law, Jean, died, and Wayne would walk for hours and hours with Joe at his side. He loved that dog, and when Wayne went into the hospital, Joe was left at home alone for a while. Nobody knew Wayne wouldn't be coming home from that visit, but I think somehow Joe knew. When we brought him to our home, he had large patches where he'd worn his fur clean away--great big bald patches the vet said was due to stress. And, I believe, to sadness.

And so, on Saturday, Joe and Wayne will be reunited. I'm a firm believer in animals in heaven. Scripture assures us that the new Earth will have all the creatures that the old one has. Joe is God's creature, and he was Wayne's best friend. I have the most beautiful picture in my head of Wayne in Heaven, turning around, and having his already-complete joy doubled over at the sight of Joe--fully restored--bounding across some patch of paradise to meet him.

My Sister's Birthday

Today is my sister's birthday--Happy Birthday, Barbara!!! Now, chances are she'll never read this, as she's living the country life in Wyoming, but she deserves a shout-out anyway...

She and I have an on-going joke stemming from the fact that she doesn't like to own up to her age. Like, at all. She's a few years older than I am, but every year we decide that we're drifting closer and closer. Pretty soon, we say, she'll pass me up and become the new baby of the family!

The picture here is from last Christmas, when our family went up to Wyoming to spend Christmas with her family. It was an amazing time, and this moment captures the two of us being towed up a mountain, only to tube down it at lightning (well, pretty fast) speed. Barb's in the foreground. She lives in this wintry climate, so she's wearing the cute jacket and stylish headband. I'm further back, and if you could see me, you'd see me in my dad's winter coat, an ill-fitting hat, brand-new snowboots. She's the snow bunny, I'm the slope ragamuffin. A better picture of my life with Barbara would be one of us spinning down the mountain, though. She was a teenager when I was playing with dolls. She was building her life and family while I was trudging through puberty, and now--well, life just goes by to quickly for the both of us. She spins in her circle; I spin in mine.

But, every now and then--never often enough--one of us picks up the phone and calls. We'll giggle within the first 2 seconds of the conversation, and laugh often throughout. She's always been a spark in my life--beauty to aspire to, values to emulate, and the best cook I know!

So, Happy Birthday, Barbara! Here's wishing you a Red Velvet Cake!