Many Saturday mornings my Dad made waffles.
Real waffles.
Waffles on a gigantic waffle iron the size of a sheet of plywood.
But Dad’s waffles weren’t normal. They had personality. They often resembled Mickey Mouse, butterflies, and I vaguely recall my alpha/omega initials “AZ” being burned into those wonderful little divits.
Breakfast is magic. What other meal is it permissible to douse the food with syrups, sugars and whipped toppings? Continue reading “3 Reasons Why Men Make Breakfast”