My husband and I went out for breakfast the other day.
Avocado toast was on the menu.
Green is not a color I want to see on my toast.
I guess that means I’m not a foodie.
Which isn’t a surprise.
As a child, I ate plenty of toast.
But it didn’t come with avocado on it.
Or butter.
My toast came topped with margarine.
Because semi-solid, partially hydrogenated vegetable oil infused with yellow dye #6 tastes just like butter.
At least that’s what my mom said.
The advertisements for margarine made similar claims.
“Tastes better than butter.”
“Fit for a king.”
“Margarine that’s good enough to fool Mother Nature.”
It was a hard sell.
Literally.
Because margarine doesn’t melt.
Our toaster had three settings: Light, Dark and A.S.D.
Activate the Smoke Detector.
None of the settings were capable of warming my slice of Wonder bread to anywhere close to the melting point of margarine.
Toast wasn’t the only thing I had for breakfast.
On Sundays, my mom would make waffles.
Instead of being topped with margarine, waffles came drenched in syrup.
Real syrup.
Mrs. Buttersworth.
Not Mrs. Margarinesworth.
Mom’s waffle maker was manufactured in 1962 B.T.
Before Teflon.
That meant mom had to baste each of the 489 griddle squares in grease before she could pour any batter onto the waffle maker.
Every Sunday she’d try a different lubricant.
Bacon grease.
Lard.
Shortening.
WD-40.
Nothing prevented the waffles from sticking to the griddle.
Which meant mom’s waffles weren’t served on a plate.
Mom’s waffles came in a bowl.
As perforated strips of waffle-like fragments.
Mom would tell me looks don’t matter.
That all waffles were created the same.
And I believed her.
Until I saw an Eggo.
I didn’t even recognize it as a waffle.
Because it was flat.
And round.
And in a single piece.
I saw my first Eggo when I had a sleepover at my best friend’s house.
Kathleen’s mother was a foodie.
Her specialty dessert was waffles a la mode.
She would top each picture-perfect waffle with an equally picture-perfect scoop of mint chocolate chip ice cream.
I may not like green on my toast.
But green on my waffle?
Leggo my Eggo!
—Kristine Hayes Nibler
Kristine Hayes Nibler retired in 2022. She lives with her husband and their four dogs just outside of Phoenix, Arizona. She spends her days writing and training the dogs in disobedience. She can be reached at Kristine_Hayes@hotmail.com.