They're Just Eggo

Sundays in the country meant walking two miles through cornfields and haystacks to our Granny's white house on the other side of the hill.

Come Sunday morning, my siblings and I would ignore our bickering parents, get ourselves ready, duck under the fence of our father's property, then argue the entire way over who would eat the most waffles.

Thinking we could still hear our parents, I never looked back as we walked carefully over the budding crops. I was too excited for breakfast.

Granny's house provided stability when our parents couldn't. Mom had a habit of getting drunk and running off with one of her one-night stands. Devastated at her constant betrayal, Dad lost himself in his work and sometimes wouldn't return home until nightfall.

By the time I was ten, home stopped feeling like home. We became a 'fend for yourself' family, eating mostly cereal and whatever was in the snack drawer whenever my parents forgot they had children.

But Granny's house was different. Granny was different. My brothers and I would put on our happy faces to greet her as she opened her door and gave us each a hug before warning us not to drag dirt inside.

Her kitchen was warm and yellow. The morning light coming in through the long windows forced us to squint as we sat down at her round, wooden table. She didn't like when we offered to help her carry the dishes to the table. She would huff, then tell us to pour ourselves some orange juice or milk.

Granny, hidden behind her large fridge, got our waffles ready. She prepared a large batch so she could feed us all at once.

"How many? And don't be asking for more than you can eat," she'd ask.

Granny could be particular. She liked order and keeping her kitchen clean. She liked when we kept our promises.

I've always wondered why she chose to make waffles of all things to her grandchildren. Those sticky, gooey disks left trails of splatter along the table, and I was sure it must have been difficult to wipe clean the gunk from between the fork tines. I remember when we finished eating, she'd make us stand in a line at her wide sink and help us scrub our lips and chins.

But without fail, and regardless of the mess, each Sunday we'd get a hot plate of circular waffles. Each one had a thick layer of salted butter on top that complemented the sweet syrup. The waffles were chewy, but we didn't need to cut them, because Granny always did that for us. I liked it best when she cut them into triangles.

New York was not short on tall Maples. Granny got her syrup from the farmer's market and often scolded our father whenever she peered into our fridge and caught sight of Walmart store-brand products.

The waffles were never topped with anything other than butter and syrup. Granny said the waffles were sweet enough and she didn't need a bunch of hyper children bouncing around her nice home. We devoured the sweet breakfast and were promptly sent outside to play. I could usually finish three, while my oldest brother ate at least four. I could never win that contest.

When I got older, I told Granny about how her waffles left such a strong impression on me. I shared with her how having such a nice breakfast to look forward to each week got me through some tough times. In response, she laughed, pulled out a blue and yellow box from her freezer, and said, "Oh, they're just Eggo!"

But to me, they were so much more.

Sometimes my home life would get so unstable that I'd stay up all night wishing I lived at my Granny's. Whenever I wished to have a mother who acted like a mother, or whenever I missed my grieving father, I'd think about Granny's kitchen and taste the Eggo waffles on my tongue.

Whenever I went to Granny's, I knew what to expect. Her frozen waffles and her nagging discipline gave me much-needed stability while my parents immaturely danced around their divorce and left their children to fend for themselves.

Sundays at Granny's were some of the most peaceful times of my childhood, even when she was scolding me to keep my sticky elbows off her clean table.