As my life changed this last Thanksgiving, I inventoried the wonderful bounty of God's provision and, in so doing, realized I had not eaten a waffle for more than three decades. Don't ask me how or why this revelation came to mind — just take it as insight of how my well-honed guidance system works and move on with me from there. Since waffles had been a childhood favorite of my parents and mine — there were many times way back when that dad or mom simply made us waffles for our meals — I decided then and there that I just absolutely had to address this failing in my character (perhaps marking the first semblance of a bucket list in my reckoning), and since I try now to sample recognized quality in all such endeavors, I would meet this goal by making my very first visit to the only commercial chain that specializes in these stamped and pressed products, the Waffle House. That was the goal and plan. But as some of you know, it never happened. Every time I approached a Waffle House, or even contemplated a waffle, I somehow talked myself out of it, mostly for dietary considerations. I'm nearly 60, after all, and must be more responsible about what I inject into this aging shell. But this morning, as I arose to find myself facing a nearly flat tire, my mind saw this as the sign that today — indeed, that very hour — was the destined moment. I would eat a waffle as my tire was repaired. So dropping my car off at the shop that sold me that tire, I crossed busy Memorial on foot, braving the crazed drivers who sought only my demise, and in a remarkable fit of endurance and bravery, I thrust open the Village Inn doors, walked past their amazing pie display without sampling even a morsel of that ever-so-enchanting whipped cream topping, and won admittance to a booth where the anointed waitress awaited my every order preference. Again the dietary concerns sought to wrestle with my mind, but knowing that I faced my supreme moment of destiny for that particular minute of time, I ordered not just a waffle with an abundance of butter, but real maple syrup, a scrambled egg, and two strips of bacon. My heart shuddered, but once it remembered that I had taken aspirin and fish oil with my vitamins that morning, it calmed down and came to an understanding, as did the rest of me, that epoch revelation arrived on that plate. At first I was disappointed, for the golden brown pastry seemed cold, but then I remembered that only fresh off the griddle did these things truly melt butter. With that I took heart, for one touch of that adjoining container showed my maple syrup was more than hot enough for this task. So with building passion, girded by patience, I spread my butter ever so gently over that pocked circle of gastric delight. I raised the glass vase, slid back its thin safety valve, and drenched my meal with the rich hazel nectar that has sustained Vermont for generations upon generations. Lifting my fork with a sigh usually heard only before presents on Christmas morn, I cut off my first chunk of pressed bread, about a square and a half dripping in syrup, and savored that wonderfully sweet smoothness of maple butter over puffed crispness. It was like tasting sunshine. I then enjoyed my second bite, amazed that the sensation was every blessing I remembered of my youth. But by the third bite, my novelty-driven joy faded before honest realization that this childhood delicacy was indeed exactly what I remembered, a sugary indulgence that I no longer felt comfortable eating. By bite five I almost decided not to finish it, but my inborn stubbornness would not allow me to walk away from something I'd ordered. So it was with pent-up gratitude that I finally ended that waffle's existence and started on the eggs and bacon. And as I slid that sticky plate aside, I was reminded once more just how hard it is to reclaim, much less take comfort in, what we feel we've lost. I also realized why I had subconsciously resisted making this journey for so long... indeed, why I'd stopped eating these things years upon years before.

— May 27, 2016