Waffles on the Fly

I heated the waffle iron intending to make a waffled omelet. I cracked an egg in my measuring cup and realized I might as well make waffles since it's like toast and eggs in one bite. So I added flour, milk, molasses, honey, corn oil, sourdough starter, whey, baking soda, and salt. I didn't measure. I swirled around the kitchen like dervish. I painted the hot griddle with margarine and the iron started smoking. I turned on the little antique fan next to the teapot and poured in the batter onto the hot griddle. The first one stuck, as it always does. Lily was at my feet posed like a sphinx waiting for the inevitable; falling food. I took a wooden chopstick and scored and scraped out the stuck waffle. It made a pile resembling a wrecked mouse-sized mattress. I placed it on the floor in front of Lily. She loved it. It's better than what she finds in the street, I thought. I guess that goes for me too. The second waffle came out much better and the third one was perfect but I was already full. I smeared yogurt cheese on top and opened a sealed unmarked jam jar I found moments ago while cleaning my kitchen shelf. I vaguely recall it was a gift. I examined faded writing on the lid "Plum jam from Pam, 2001" (12 years ago!) I am very slow, especially with gifts, but that's another story. Are these waffles actually bumpy blintzes? My ancestral heritage is showing again. I see the world through food and my food sees the world through me.

Tonight I hope to watch the debate. Go red socks. I hope we can keep our president.