Fluffy Sunday Morning Waffles

If you are a child of the 1980’s and Cliff Huxtable wasn’t your dream dad I am going to go ahead and assume that you also were raised on another planet. All of the recent struggles and troubles of real life Bill Cosby aside, he was one heck of a comedic parental role model for all of us. The sweaters, the weird jazz, the hoagies, the eye rolls, that time he turned the house into a real world experience for entitled Theo (I cannot even tell you how many times I’ve seriously considered doing this for my children), all of it. Cliff Huxtable was the best parent we never had.

Especially that time he had a funeral for a fish. Y’all remember that one, right? Rudy’s fish dies and her devastation turns into comedic genius by the toilet bowl as the whole family is forced to endure an extremely long and dramatic funeral. For a fish. It was a classic and it’s honestly sad to me that his off screen antics have removed this scene from the collective conscious of today. Yet I digress. 

Let me explain.

You might not know this about me but in my early twenties I spent all of my time surrounded by really really nice things. I mean, the nicest of the nice. I worked in high end retail and couture fashion along with my best buddies Gucci, Manolo, and Louis. And I looked the part. Sure, I was broke but my wardrobe somehow didn’t get that message. It’s just a given that if you work in fashion you’re probably going to get paid less than you need to be to keep up the pretense of actually working in fashion. Because let me tell you, it’s really hard to sell Manolo’s while wearing Payless. It just is. So you stock your closet with things you can’t afford and, generally, look like a million bucks (remind me to tell you the very true story of the time I was approached by The Millionaire Matchmaker at Saks in Orange County). 

And while a lot has changed in my life since then one thing remains, and it’s a purse. This purse is nicer than anything I currently own. It’s technically “vintage” (because I’m old) and it’s weathered the years well, looking the part beautifully. It’s survived a lot of things, carried a lot treasures and seen me through fifteen years (yes 1-5 years) of life. I love this purse. 

Which is why calling time of death was so hard for me.

If I was a purse coroner I would declare it’s death a murder, second degree or manslaughter as I’m sure it was unintentional, but murder nonetheless. I’m sure my sweet sweet child never intended total destruction when he tossed that packet of Chic Fil A Polynesian Sauce in there. He just wanted to save himself a dipping sauce, not cause total ruin. I’m sure of this fact. 

But ruin it, he did. It took just one glance, or, more appropriately, one feel, to know the purse was dead. Soaked through with the sticky sweet mess of Polynesian sauce disaster, there was no salvaging it. I tried, mind you, oh how I tried. Armed with just a packet of dried out wet wipes, I desperately tried to mop up the mess. The front seat of my car felt like a scene from ER as I frantically tried to pump life back into a purse. But it was hopeless, and as I realized this sitting there in the parking lot of basketball practice, I cried. 

And while I was sad because it really is a great purse, that’s clearly not the whole story. The nitty gritty truth behind those tears is a bit deeper than that. The truth is I was sad because that purse felt like the last physical vestige connecting me to the girl I used to be. As irrational as it is, because it’s a freaking purse, I felt like I was having a funeral for my youth as I said goodbye. And it stung. 

Staring down the second half of my life, my “youth” is now an abstract, something I can no longer rightfully claim. The girl I was back then, she seems like a ghost or a movie I watch in re-run. I see twenty year old me learning to spread my wings and fly. I see twenty year old me learning the connection between my brains with my body with my heart with my soul and learning how they all work together to make me, me. I was growing, a lot, getting used to my own skin. And I was trying, really trying to build a life filled with joy and love and laughter.

Twenty year old me got so many things wrong. I loved the wrong people. I loved the wrong things. I wasn’t sure enough of myself yet to know that those things–the pretty shiny expensive things I was surrounded with–didn’t make me better. They didn’t make me me.  But still, twenty year old me got a lot right too. I LOVED hard. I TRIED hard. And I was aware enough to KEEP TRYING, no matter how hard things were or how wrong I was. I kept trying. No matter what.

So saying goodbye to that silly purse, it hit me hard because I don’t want to say goodbye to that girl.  I don’t want to cut ties with her. Even if my life is completely different now and the years have taken their toll on my good looks and my shine, I want to hold her tight. The good parts and yes, even some of the sharp and pointy parts that aren’t the best, I want them. I don’t know who decided that growing up always means moving on and evolving means cutting ties with who you were, but they are the worst. And they’re wrong. 

This forty-year-old me, she’s a combination of all of the mes I’ve been. And trust me, I’ve been plenty. She’s the good, the bad and the ugly of teenage me married to childhood me combined with twenties me, holding on to thirties me. She’s all of them together and none of them exclusively. Sure I’m now in my forties and extravagant luxury purse purchases aren’t in my wheelhouse and sure, I drive a mom car and wear mom clothes. But I still see the mischievous, trusting openness of twenty-year-old me when I look in the mirror and I still feel like 16 year old me when I’m driving around town with my windows wide open and my favorite music playing.

Growing up doesn’t mean getting stuck and maybe, just maybe, I needed to realize that it wasn’t the purse’s job to keep twenty year old me around, it’s mine. 

So, like a non-creepy Cliff Huxtible, I had a funeral for a purse. It’s gone. And while it makes me slightly sad and, yes, I sure wish I could replace it in kind, I know that it’s not the end of the world if I can’t. It’s just a thing….a hint of something from my past. It’s not me. It’s not my past. It doesn’t hold the magic key to my youth or the essence of my open twenty year old heart. I do. 

Because no matter how old I get, I’ll always be that girl deep down inside. And I don’t need some purse to remind me. That era isn’t gone. I’m still living it. And, like that fine vintage purse, I’m getting better and better with age. 

{Also, kids ruin things. End of story.}

And I’m sharing this recipe in homage to twenty year old me, the girl that loved to brunch. My favorite diner in NYC, EJ’s, was on the corner of 73rd and 2nd. I LOVED this place and as a twenty something professional with a kitchen the size of a postage stamp, I ate there often. Brunch was my favorite and I worked at it like a true New Yorker. EJ’s was the gold standard of my NYC life and I still, to this day, miss it. Trying to master their waffles is an impossibility, I think there’s something in the New York water that makes them heavenly, but I can try.

These fluffy Sunday Morning Waffles are a spin from my Cake Flour Pancake recipe (Recipe HERE). Typically, I keep the recipe the same and just use the waffle iron. The kids, if I’m being honest, don’t notice a difference. But I love me some fluffy waffles and knew I could do better. So after a little research, I made a few tweaks and the result were the lightest waffles I’ve ever had outside of the Upper East Side. It takes a little more work to whip the egg whites, and it truly isn’t necessary, but one morning when you’ve got some time, do yourself a favor and give it a go. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised at the result.

Peace, love and youth, 

Meg

Fluffy Sunday Morning Waffles

November 15, 2019

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By: Meaghan Dawson

Ingredients

• 1 1/2 cups all purpose flour (sifted)
• 1/2 cup corn starch
• 2 teaspoons baking powder
• 1 teaspoon baking soda
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 2 cups milk
• 2 eggs, separated,
• 4 tablespoons coconut oil, melted and cooled (alternatively, vegetable oil)
• 1 teaspoon vanilla
• 2 tablespoons sugar

Directions

• Step 1 Preheat waffle iron to medium high–oil if necessary.
• Step 2 Sift flour, corn starch, baking powder, baking soda and salt together in a large bowl. Whisk slightly. Set aside.
• Step 3 Combine egg YOLKS, milk, oil and vanilla together in a small bowl and set aside.
• Step 4 In the bowl of a stand mixer (or use hand mixer) whip egg whites on high speed until smooth (peaks should wilt on whisk).
• Step 5 Add sugar 1/2 tablespoon at a time, whipping on high in between, until stiff peaks form. Set aside.
• Step 6 Stir wet ingredients into dry, making sure that all the flour is incorporated and mixed well.
• Step 7 GENTLY fold in the egg whites using a rolling motion, being sure to combine thoroughly without taking the air out of the whites. You’ll know it’s combined when there are no more large clumps of whites in the batter.
• Step 8 Pour onto hot waffle iron until bottom is covered.
• Step 9 Cook until desired crisp and brown, repeat.
• Step 10 Serve with butter, powdered sugar, fruit and maple syrup.
• Step 11 Best reheated in the oven to preserve crisp outside.

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