On Waffles

A sappy, syrupy recipe.

Welcome to the Friday post for paid subscribers: sourdough waffles, a recipe as legendary as the man who championed it. On Tuesday, all subscribers will receive a post on the merits of living by the water.

Every Christmas morning growing up, we ate waffles. Not just any waffles, but sourdough waffles. An old recipe from a cookbook I’ve since forgotten, raised waffles were a non-negotiable tradition. We knew, no matter how much chocolate we got in our stocking, not to fill up on candy—room was to be saved for waffles.

My grandfather, who I called Papa, mixed the dough every Christmas Eve in a large, tin stockpot and left it in the garage to ferment overnight. I can still see him coming in from the garage in his robe and slippers, clutching that cold pot, eyes shining, ready to make more waffles than we could possibly eat.

It’s been just over a year since we lost Papa, and to say that there’s still a hole in my heart is just to state the obvious. He was larger than life, and, of course, cooking waffles isn’t going to fix the fact that he’s no longer here to man the enormous, scorchingly-hot square waffle iron on Christmas morning. Dulling the ache with waffles, though, makes missing him a little sweeter.

Little things brought back big memories: the way the thin dough inevitably runs over the edge of the waffle maker, collecting on the counter below. (He used to tuck a dinner plate below the waffle maker to catch the drips.) The clicks of the waffle maker as it heats up, always to the highest heat it can muster. (We took turns on the waffle watch with him, waiting for our squares and doing our best not to get burned.) The tangy smell that washes over you as the waffle dough hits the iron for the first time. (He used one of my grandmother’s soup ladles to pour the dough into the waffle maker.)

When I took a bite of my own batch of waffles on Christmas morning, I felt for a moment like I was back in their kitchen, sitting at the table with Papa, passing maple syrup back and forth and showing off Christmas presents. Again, I found that taste had transported me back through time and space and into a warm, sweet memory.

Papa was a notorious sweet tooth, but these waffles were the perfect foil to the maple syrup (“Only the real stuff!”) he warmed in the microwave. They’re tangy and salty, and when they crisp up against the mold of the waffle maker, they’re crunchy and almost chip-like. They work just as well with syrup and butter as they do with fried chicken and spicy tofu.

I made a small batch for Colin and I on Christmas morning, and they were so good that I made them again this weekend—a full batch this time, so we could freeze them to have in the busy weeks to come. It seems that these waffles are the perfect, OG freezer waffle: I simply threw them all in a gallon-sized plastic bag and then tossed them in the freezer. They warmed up even better than they were to begin with.

Raised Waffles