The Waffle Doesn't Fall Far From the Tree

I was almost four when my sister was born. When my parents headed for the hospital, they left me in the very capable hands of Polly, our next door neighbor, my second mother, real mother to my two most favoritest babysitters. In the morning, Polly asked what I usually ate for breakfast. I told her that I ate waffles, so Polly set about making me waffles. She admits to having been surprised that my mom would go to so much trouble every day for breakfast, but she was happy to oblige in an effort to make my stay with her and transition to big sisterhood as easy as possible.

As I ate my waffles, Polly asked if I liked them, and if they were like the ones my mom made. I politely (I'm sure I was polite...right, Mom?) responded that they were good but not like my mom's. When Polly asked why, I replied that my mom made hers in the toaster. Good ol' Eggo.

Fast forward a couple decades: This leisurely Saturday morning, my husband asked my almost-five year old what he would like for breakfast. He asked for waffles. (You can see where this is going). So Dad set about looking for the ingredients to prepare the batter. Luke interrupted: "Dad, they're in the freezer."

Leggo my Eggo indeed.