Waffle iron
Photo: My Christmas present

In the weeks leading up to Christmas, mon petit chou had been asking lots of questions about breakfast foods: which were my favorites, did I prefer pancakes to waffles, if I could have anything for breakfast, what would it be? I have no idea how I answered him because it could be corned beef hash and two eggs over easy one day and a stack of pancakes the next.

In Japan, I craved the elaborate and savory breakfasts of grilled mackerel, grated daikon, tofu, rice, and pickles. In Naples, I had a cappuccino and a cornetto (croissant) or a graffa (sugar doughnut) at the bakery around the corner from our apartment. Once I learned the baking schedule I would arrive just as the graffe were hot and ready. I would greet the baker, the only Neapolitan I ever met who was shy and taciturn. After two years of nearly complete silence while I drank my coffee and ate my pastry, one day I informed him that we were leaving Italy. Then he talked to me for an hour, wondering at so much he hadn’t had the nerve to ask me before.

Lately, I’ve been eating a yogurt made by Pequea Valley Farm in Pennsylvania which is sold at the Del Ray Farmers’ Market. The yogurt is made from milk from grass-fed Jersey cows and is, therefore, a rich yellow color in late summer/early autumn. Lately it has become a little more white. Delicious.

Anyway, I love breakfast and don’t understand skipping this most satisfying meal.

Photo: Oh deep waffle pockets.

Waffles! Waffles are inexplicably happy. I have no Proustian revelation when I eat them, just a general sense of contentment. But I’ve never owned a waffle iron. Now I do.