A few minutes before nine Saturday morning. I straighten my apron and scan the table.
Two tubs of butter? Three bottles of maple syrup? A 10-cup coffee pot? Yup, all set.
I turn over the sign on the front door: “Barb’s Best Ever Waffles, Open.” Soon, folks will be arriving for an all-you-can-eat breakfast.
A waitress at a waffle house, I’m not. But each Saturday morning I welcome friends, family and neighbors into my kitchen for coffee, conversation and all the crispy, buttery waffles they can eat.
It all goes back to when my husband, Gil, and I were raising our four children in Van Nuys, California. Oh, how we cherished Saturday mornings! It seemed like the only time we weren’t rushing off somewhere.
Weekday mornings were hectic, making a quick breakfast for our two boys and two girls, packing their lunches, getting them off to school on time. Sunday mornings were for church.
Saturday mornings, though, were all about long, leisurely breakfasts. The kids only wanted one thing: waffles. Extra time in the morning meant I could play with different ingredients like Bisquick, millet flour and buttermilk.
One morning I set a plate of waffles down only to look up and see four sets of hands grabbing for the last one. That’s when I knew my recipe had turned out just right. We’d linger at the table, laughing, sharing stories—the kids with syrup dripping from their chins.
“They look like hummingbirds,” Gil and I would joke. Time seemed to stand still. There was no sense of urgency, nowhere to be except with each other.
Over the years, though, a lot of things changed. The children grew up, moved out and started their own families. Then, in my fifties, I lost my beloved Gil to cancer. The house seemed so lonely without him.
I knew I had to get out, so I joined nearly every club in town: the women’s golf team, the welcome wagon, the church choir. Anything to get me around people. I made an effort to chat more with my neighbors. And I never stopped making waffles. Sometimes my kids or grandkids would join me; other times, I’d whip up a batch just for me. That’s how Saturdays were for a while.
Then, one day it hit me: Maybe I should invite some of these new friends over for waffles. What better way to not feel so alone? I asked several women from the choir. We had a great time that Saturday. That gave me the courage to invite a few more members of my church the following week.
Well, word of mouth must’ve spread, because more and more folks turned up each Saturday.
“I’ve heard you make the best waffles in town,” they’d say. It opened the door (literally) to a Saturday morning neighborhood tradition, one that my new husband, Ernie, happily joined in too. Six years ago I moved to a new part of town, and it’s followed me here too.
I never know how many people to expect (record attendance is 27), but I like surprises. The regulars choose their favorite mugs and help themselves to coffee or juice, and the newcomers seem to make themselves at home pretty quickly.
So far, I’ve worn out three waffle irons. Most folks eat two waffles. The record is seven, held by my athletic grandson, Will, who usually follows breakfast with surfing (it’s a wonder he doesn’t sink out there!).
My guests are like family. One neighbor who comes with her son, says, “You know, my son and I talk more during your waffle breakfast than we do all week.”
Another couple and their gardener patched up their differences in my kitchen and parted as friends. Guests have traveled from as far away as Germany, Japan, Bhutan.
A new family just moved in down the block. I found their two young sons on my doorstep one Saturday. “Are you the lady who gives out free waffles?” they asked. I couldn’t help but smile.
Everyone washes their own dishes, and some stay and sit a spell. They share their aches and pains, their joys and sorrows, their prayers. Every now and then, I stop and listen. To the voices floating through the kitchen, the laughter, the young voices mixed with old. Brings back memories of those sweet, unhurried Saturdays when my children were small.
Come noon time, I turn over the “Barb’s Best Ever Waffles” sign on the door and say a prayer of thanks. For Saturdays, for waffles and for the fellowship they provide.
I just turned 94, and serving others really keeps me going. When you open your heart and your home, you make room for more than just guests. You let the blessings in too.
Try making Barb’s Best Waffles yourself!
