​National Waffle Day will be celebrated this Saturday, August 24th, yet another unofficial food holiday that continues to gain momentum via social media. In the days prior to insta-everything, we relied on word of mouth for generating pop culture momentum. Today, we turn to #nationalwaffleday for all the waffle news fit to consume. Before you begin scrolling Yelp reviews in your quest for the best syrup smothered waffles, let's take a moment to learn a little bit about early waffles and what the holiday actually commemorates.
 
Waffles have been traced all the way back to ancient Greece, where flat cakes called Obelios were roasted between two metal plates attached to a long wooden handle, Obelio batters were originally unleavened and unsweetened, more akin to a religious wafer. Over time, the humble batter was enhanced with cinnamon or ginger, honey, butter, and cream. Leavening agents created thicker waffles, and the waffle irons themselves were no longer imprinted with coat of arms, landscapes, or religious symbols, as they had been in the 14th century.
 
In the 15th century, Dutch waflers (single ‘f’) opted for rectangular waffle iron plates instead of round. Grid patterns were a result of both the forging process and artisan craftsmanship. We have the Dutch to thank for bringing waffles to America where we opted to pair them with maple syrup; at the time, it was a less expensive sweetener than sugar. What began as a humble between meal snack in Europe would later take center stage on breakfast tables throughout America.
 
As for the seemingly random August date affixed to National Waffle Day, there’s a reason behind it. History tells us that the American inventor, Cornelius Swartwout, received the very first U.S. patent for the waffle iron on August 24, 1869. Fashioning his waffle iron out of two large cast iron plates secured by a hinge, Swartwout’s rudimentary stove-top appliance was a precursor to General Electric’s freestanding waffle iron, introduced in 1918. This relatively small kitchen appliance would forever change Sunday mornings for sleepy-eyed Americans.
 
I was one of those tired Sunday morning waffle-seekers, fixated by the light on the Sunbeam electric waffle iron, waiting for the red light to indicate that the iron was hot enough to accept the Bisquick batter, and then again, impatient for it to turn green signaling 'done.' Armed with a fork to emancipate the four cross-hatched squares from the iron, it was traditional for a wall of steam to hit you smack in the face upon opening the appliance. It was well worth the wait and the facial because waffles, with their crispy/crunchy edges and deep pockets, were infinitely more fun than pancakes.  
 
The Sunbeam was merely a pre-cursor to the waffle irons I was yet to meet. In my restaurant-owning days, we poured a rich, eggy batter into a cavernous commercial waffle iron, notorious for overworking the electrical service. Its preferred time to short out was at the peak of the brunch rush. The fragrance of butter, vanilla, and bacon was often overshadowed by the hint of something burning; residual batter that had dripped onto the heating element. Praying for brunch service to end and armed with a ginormous oven mitt, I timidly unplugged the damn iron. Years later, the restaurant job that required hotel pans of tiramisu also tethered me to a pizzelle iron with a fondness for electrical fireworks every time I plugged the tired cord in or out of the wall socket. 
 
Recently, on a trip to picturesque Amsterdam, I waited in several long lines in order to secure a very different kind of waffle. The stroopwafel, (Dutch for syrup waffle) is a sandwich composed of two very thin vanilla waffle cookies filled with a dream of dark caramel.
 
The stroopwafel dates back to 1784, when a humble baker from the town of Gouda created a waffle made from leftover crumbs and spices. It was as unappealing as it sounds, causing the baker to doctor up the cookie by filling it with syrup.
 
A smaller version of the stroopwafel is now available worldwide, even offered as a snack cookie on certain airlines. There is no comparison between the commercially made cookies and a fresh one hot off the waffle iron, but in a pinch, I've been known to purchase a package at Trader Joes. To truly enjoy a stroopwafel, fragrant with butter and caramel, and just the slightest hint of cinnamon, you need the stroopwafel experience. It’s so interesting to think that the stroopwafel, a dowdy cookie that began as a popular pastry among the poor, has been elevated to pop sugar status.
Standing in line surrounded by people from different cultures, all sharing the same stroopwafel goal, is both humbling and eye opening. A sign on an adjacent building quietly speaks volumes, "Be Excellent To Each Other." Amidst the crowds and the distinctive fragrance of a commercial waffle iron, you realize we have much more in common than we have to keep us apart. #happynationalwaffleday
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

The last hurrah of summer fruit is taking its toll on me. I am bombarded from all sides with ripe peaches and right now nectarines. “Stop the madness, Stone Fruit!
“You know I love you, but you’re killing me!”
 
Friday was a particularly brutal day in the pie trenches. By 8:30 am it had already been a day. I was quietly fuming over the re-telling of an incident from Thursday, Julia Child’s birthday. There was some commotion over a beautifully decorated sugar cookie with a Julia quote painstakingly written in royal icing. A disgruntled individual felt the cookie was perpetuating a negative stereotype about women in the kitchen. Funny thing- our entire kitchen crew is female, not to mention forward thinking.
 
The curmudgeonly cookie disparager should know that yesterday I conducted a totally casual social media poll, based on a Julia-ism. Julia Child once said, (and I quote) “I think every woman should have a blowtorch.” It turns out that blowtorches are quite common in home kitchens, with 70% of those polled (many of them women) claiming to own one. I like to think that we have Julia to thank for the popularity of kitchen torches. Her television career spanned decades, with many episodes dedicated to the art of flambé. (Some episodes more successfully than others, but she always cautioned her viewers to be careful around an open flame.) I think about Julia (and my eyelashes) every time I torch a meringue.
 
I continue thinking about Julia all the way home. The way her Mousse au Chocolat handily snagged my High School French Club Presidency. The way she casually introduced me to cream puffs piped as swans, swimming on a pool of chocolate sauce. It was Julia as the French Chef, who gave me the courage to arm myself with a kitchen torch, a critical skill requirement for every restaurant job I ever had. Her greatest lesson was reminding all of us to stop apologizing for mistakes in the kitchen. Sage advice, indeed.
 
Lacking the foresight to pick up some heavy cream on the way home, I am unable to satisfy my hankering for chocolate mousse. There is a gaping hole in the evening’s dessert course, and it's making me cranky. Still preoccupied with the events of the day, I begin rummaging through the refrigerator in search of inspiration. Nothing leaps out at me save for a container of caramel sauce. Scanning the kitchen counter for fruit, a solitary fuzzy peach and a smooth skinned nectarine look lost in a cavernous fruit bowl. Turning my back on the paltry fruit offering, I'm forced to  forage through the freezer. The sound of the ice machine echoes through the kitchen. From the depths, I unearth two plastic wrapped discs of what look like pie dough. I set one of them on the counter just a little too loudly. The fruit in the fruit bowl jumps.
 
Peach turns to Nectarine then to me. “Rough day? You seem a little, well, pre-
occupied, a little down in the mouth." Nectarine nods then adds, “Maybe talking about it will help.”
 
“What are you talking about?” I reply, whacking the ice-cold pie dough with my heaviest rolling pin.

Peach treads cautiously. “It’s August, isn’t it?” Brushing the leaf out of her eyes, Peach elaborates. “We’re talking about you. How you seem unable to live in the moment, refusing to embrace August and accept the season in front of you.” Peach is on a roll and can’t seem to stop herself.  “There’s a reason you’re constantly pining for a different season, living in the past or the future, never in the now.”
 
I can’t believe I’m having this conversation. “Did you ever think that possibly it's the fault of the fruit? Maybe it's under ripe, or over ripe. Or there’s simply too much of it at one time! You don’t understand,” I explain. “August isn’t the problem. August foreshadows the problem. Once we’ve crossed mid-August, it’s too late. Yesterday was Julia’s 107th birthday, August 15th. It’s practically September. Costco is decked out in Halloween and the Farmers’ Market wants me to buy apples. Apples?! I don’t want apples!” I hiss through clenched teeth.
 
The stone fruit leans back in the bowl. “Could it be,” Nectarine suggests in her best Dr. Fraser Winslow Crane voice, “that the problem isn’t the apple? Perhaps,” Nectarine pauses before continuing. “Perhaps the problem is your inability to live one fruit at a time. Think about it, Nice Pie. Try it. One. Fruit. At. A. Time.”
 
Peach nods solemnly. “We know that you’ve put up a good front. But the truth is so much of this stems from that nasty break-up with Rhubarb. That was heart-breaking…”
 
Catching my reflection in the tempered glass of the oven door, I weigh their words carefully, if only momentarily. Grabbing the fruit bowl and whacking the circle of pie dough once again for emphasis, I preheat the oven to 400 degrees Fahrenheit. Plucking my well-worn copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking from the shelf, I wonder- how much bourbon is considered too much bourbon in a caramel sauce?