I grew up in a waffle-loving household. At least one Saturday morning a month, my sister and I would convince our dad to stir up a batch of batter and pull out his curvy, chrome waffle iron (circa 1955).
He’d serve up the waffles as they came off the machine and it was up to us to add the butter and maple syrup (though my mother would watch our syrup application carefully to avoid over consumption). Often, my dad would make a double batch so that there’d be waffles for the freezer and weekday morning breakfasts.
These days, I make waffles on the same loose, monthly schedule that I know from growing up, always making some to eat and a few for the freezer. I used to be devoted to a vintage waffle iron that was much like the one I grew up with, but then, four years ago, someone gave me a modern one. It has nonstick plates and a timer that chimes gently when your waffle is finished cooking. It is heaven.