I have to warn you right off the bat – this post is going to be a self-indulgent one. Offensively self-indulgent. To the point where, if you make it through to the end, I’m going to need to do some damage control in terms of rebuilding our blogger/reader relationship.
As long as that’s out on the table, let’s move forward. The cake this week is a stack of waffles. It does well to demonstrate to you, whoever you are, my unhealthy obsession with breakfast things. You might remember my first cake, which was also a tribute to the most important meal of the week. I am not messing around, here. I’m not telling you that I like to stuff my face with meats and cheese because I think it’s endearing.
While I’ve been known to eat my weight in brunch, the food is certainly not the sole attraction. If that were the case, I’d live in a diner. The whole point is to gather with people you like. Early on a Sunday afternoon, you can rehash and reflect on the prior week, and come to terms with the fact that a new one is starting in a very real and immediate way. Which brings me to the main reason I made this cake.
Senior year of college, I lived in an off-campus house with four friends, and it was, for lack of a better phrase, the tits. It was excellent 100% of the time. Every sunday we would make brunch and extend an open invitation to nearby friends, so we’d have a different cast each week. As a result, early on in our year-long lease, we dubbed our space “Waffle Haus.”
We had brunch down to a science. What started as a hungover stumble through various sloppy breakfast elements became, over time, a well-oiled machine. The early risers would hustle to the GU – a local grocery store with horrible lighting, out-of-the-question cold cuts, and mediocre produce – and return to hopefully rouse Michelle, the potato-maker.The potatoes take the longest to make, so we start them first.
Michelle would cook the potatoes in the way that only Michelle can, and at some point the starchy odor would make its way into Caitlin’s kitchen-adjacent bedroom and signal the next phase of Waffle Haus Brunch: meats.
The bacon was also a time-consuming component, and so Caitlin and Michelle would battle for stove space as the early risers recovered from their GU journey and readied themselves for their coming tasks. Donnelly would do some miscellaneous business such as cutting strawberries and making fresh whipped cream – but the most important of Donnelly’s myriad tasks —> eggs.
The reason that waffles come last is simple: everyone loves a hot waffle. You make them to order, and everyone’s happy. You give someone a cold waffle, and you might as well slap them in the face with the business end of a leather glove. That’s where I come in.
Brunch attendance could range from 6 to around 15, so you can imagine the cleanup involved. We had waffles, we had meats, we had eggs. Potatoes, fresh whipped cream, strawberries, muffins, juice. All topped with a generous layer of shredded cheese. When bellies were full and conversation exhausted, our sleepiest roommate, Kaila, would initiate the clean up sequence. This was mostly because she’s a good person, but partially because we never really had luck waking her up during the food preparation.
So that’s Waffle Haus brunch in a nutshell. I’ve been looking for an excuse to draw us all in absurd traditional lady-hero garb, so I seized it.
Those meals make up some of my greatest memories – but don’t get me wrong. We did other neat shit in that house, too. Like jump off of my Tahoe into the snow.
Like watch Obama get all elected and whatever.
Like hike.
Like have incredible Halloween costumes.
Like have a prom night in Sepia.
Like do actual schoolwork sometimes.
Like cook nutritious, portion-controlled meals on a regular basis.
Like eat cats.
Senior year was just the gold standard of years so far.
I made this waffle cake because 3 of us (myself, Donnelly, and Michelle) were meeting up in Cambridge, MA for the weekend. As the waffle has become a mascot-of-sorts for our year at the haus, it seemed appropriate.
How fun was that? Taking a trip down memory lane – a memory lane in an unfamiliar city where you don’t recognize any faces and everything is boring. Let’s just wrap this thing up
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