It’s both alluring and reminiscent of my childhood. Is that weird?
The moment I locked eyes with her, I knew it was a love for the ages. The date: Wednesday, September 6th. The time? 7:15 P.M. The location? None other than Hewitt Dining Hall. After a long day of stress-crying about my class schedule and waitlists, I was absolutely ravenous, on the prowl for a quick pick-me-up. My previous affairs with her voluptuous, sizzling figure had been limited to the occasional continental breakfast at a remote Holiday Inn Hotel, yet lo and behold: there she was, ready for the taking. Nothing could cure my cravings at that very moment quite like a warm, syrupy waffle.
I filled the disposable cup with waffle batter. Despite people busting past me, holding plates stacked with pizza and salads, coffee and computers, for me, we were in a world entirely of our own. Tantalizingly, I poured the contents of the cup across the nonstick surface, tuned in to every imperceptible hiss and crackle of heat between us. After three agonizing minutes of waiting, I had my prize, the golden trophy of my labors if you will. From the second my skin touched her tanned facade, practically overflowing the too-small Hewitt dessert plates, our connection was undeniable. How could it not be? Crafted (sort of) by my own two hands: I understood what it meant to truly be made for a purpose. But it was not to last.
Placing the plate on the table and pulling up a chair to my friends, hardly three seconds passed before each asked, nay, begged me for a morsel of my creation. What ever is a girl to do?
I took a moment to reflect deep within myself. What’s the point of a beautiful thing if not to share it with the people you care for? You know that one poem by Wendy Cope about how splitting an orange with your friends is like, a symbol of love or whatever? Well, all the oranges I’ve come across on campus so far are almost physically impossible to peel. These unlimited waffles don’t just stand in the metaphorical place of our meager produce selections, but in fact, exceed it. Their quartered shape is even seemingly designed to be torn and shared amongst meal companions. I gladly divided up the goods among my newfound friends. In desperate search of skin-to-waffle contact, we picked up our quarters with our fingers and took a bite in synchrony. Syrup or no, the crispy dough warmed our mouths (and our hearts) in the midst of the dissonance typical of Hewitt on a Wednesday evening. We reveled in the affair with the lover as a quartet, instead of an individual, no longer alone in the busting dining hall.
So, my dear Hewitt Waffle Maker(s), thank you. Not just for letting us reap your delicious rewards, but for allowing us to know what it means to give or be given a quarter of a waffle. No dessert could be so sweet.
All Waffles via Author