waffles in pompei

It's hard not to love a sunrise.

 

 

Even when you’ve only caught it by unhappy accident.  On the four a.m. coattails of a baby thirsty and feverish and periodically caught in a chest-gripping cough.  The fourth and latest family member to succumb to this particularly nasty mid-summer bug.

 

The ear catches it first, giving lie to the eye, which sees only midnight.  The thrumming of crickets, the pounding ascent of a train not slowing to a crawl in deference to urban traffic.  No need, at this early hour.  The birdsong is everywhere, astounding in its omniscience.  Would we sing as differently as they under cover of darkness?  Surely, these must be the same cardinals, sparrows, chickadees that we are accustomed to, and not a special touring band brought in for the early morning shift.  But this is some other language entirely, foreign to the clipped trills we hear at breakfast.  An elegant little opera underway in the treetops, no stagelight in sight.  There is a vast science to birdsong, and I know any standard-issue ornithologist could decode in an instant this mysterious elegy.  But I can think only what help it would be if, come Fall, I could exchange my stalwart "Rise and shine!" and instead weave my voice into this sweet spiral.

 

The air surprises me with its chill, still more with its thick dampness.  The heat sleeps, but apparently not the humidity.

 

All the shades of the world hide on that funny little pre-dawn cusp between periwinkle and technicolor.  My becoming-familiar trees are no longer a thoughtful composition of plum and fourteen greens, but are all reduced to flat form, inky silhouettes against the barely-blue sky.  And there, on a highwire between cherry boughs, is Venus or the North Star or perhaps a particularly luminous anonymous ball of gas.  At this early hour, I can pretend I'm too tired to remember my astronomy, and not simply ignorant.  I empathize, as my Nikon returns only impressionistic blurs.  “I know,” I say, “I’m bleary and wobbly at this hour, too”.

 

 

And then, in the time it takes to drink my coffee, it’s over.  Or just beginning.  Clouds the color of a conch’s lining infiltrate the sky, the telltale sign of a sun on the ascent.  

 

 

I remember how lovely everything looks in this gossamer light. 

 

 

How the hustle and bustle of Everymorning hurtles me right past this glowing patch of day.

 

 

I think about all the people who’ve heard our story and apologized for Ohio’s lack of ocean.  As if there once was one, and they themselves sent it packing.  As if they don’t realize that Ohio keeps its ocean overhead.

 

I survey the kitchen, in its arrested-state of disshevelment, its own little Pompei.  I do a little fact-finding, discover I'm still wearing yesterday's clothes.  I remember now, abandoning it all in favor of an ear-achey boy, of lying down "just for a moment".  I see some kind soul tucked in the yeast I’d proofed for father’s day waffles, after my "moment" extended well past midnight.  It’s spent now, collapsed.  But it’s early enough, I realize, to start fresh.  So I do.  It’s hard not to love a sunrise.

 

 

Yeasted Waffles

adapted from Deborah Madison

yield: 8-10 waffles

 

Yeast is a funny rubicon for many people, myself included.  It has a stop-and-go rhythm to it that doesn’t always dovetail with our (okay, my) love of instant gratification.  Indeed, it wasn’t until I realized that these waffles came together more quickly in the morning than the standard variety – because most of the measuring and mixing is done the night before – that I gave them a whirl.  I haven’t looked back.  They are to standard waffles what chocolate mousse is to shoe leather.  And I'm rather fond of standard waffles.   

2 ¼ tsp yeast

1 tsp sugar or honey

2 c lukewarm milk

½ tsp salt

1 ½ c whole grain flour (I like a mix of wheat and oat)

1 c white unbleached flour

2 Tbs sugar

5 Tbs oil or butter

2 eggs, lightly beaten

½ tsp baking soda

1.      On Waffle Eve (or by 5 a.m., if you happen to rise before the sun), prep your yeast batter: Pour ¼ cup warm water in a large-ish bowl (remember, batter rises), then sprinkle on yeast and 1 tsp sugar.  Proof ten minutes, until bubbly.  Warm milk (two minutes in the microwave does the job nicely), then add it to yeast, along with salt, flours, sugar and oil.  Cover, and let sit overnight.

2.      In the morning, mix eggs and baking soda into the now-springy, bouncy, twice-the-size batter.  Pour into greased, pre-heated waffle iron, and cook per standard procedure.

 

Note: This batter holds well in the refrigerator for 2-3 days.