I could never really believe The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. It wasn't the presence of fauns or the magical furniture that transported kids to a world where it was always winter but never Christmas. It wasn't even the talking Lion and the silly story of him dying and coming back to life (as if anybody could believe something like that). But, I was willing to accept those things. Suspend my disbelief and all that. What I could not look past was the Turkish delight.
Edmund sells the entire world out for the treat. However, in real life, Turkish delight resembles nothing as much as it does squishy, solidified perfume. Nobody (and I mean nobody, even British children on wartime rations) would do what he did if Turkish delight were on offer. Other sweets, sure. But waffles? I would sell my own foot for waffles. Seriously. I love them. That's what the White Queen should have lured him with.
Which is what this story is leading up to. My mother the other day threatened that we should change our Christmas breakfast tradition. "Have something new this year," she suggested. See, from well before when I was born, my family has had what we call strata every year on Christmas morning. It's a breakfast casserole with eggs, cheese, bread and cream of mushroom soup. So many happy memories are tied up in strata: being too distracted by presents that I had just opened to eat any of it, learning that mushrooms are not gross, having everybody around on Christmas morning, all eating the same thing year after year . So, even if I were not the most change-adverse person I know, I'd be appalled that this tradition is under attack. This, people, is the true war on Christmas.
However, my mother followed my whinging question, "what do you mean 'something new'?" with the phrase, "maybe waffles." Oh my goodness. My culinary weakness. My achilles intestine, if you will. The suggestion, though probably false and most certainly not likely to happen, created a real inner crisis for me. Is it better to keep with traditions of tasty food or buck them for the holy grail of breakfast breads? I'm sure the contortions of my soul were evident on my face. Which is why my protesting, "Naw, I think we should stick with strata" probably didn't sound too convincing.
So, family, if you come over on Christmas morning and find that waffles are on the menu, I'm sorry. My hand was forced. The flesh is weak. I was tempted beyond that which I was able to bear. And, if you're too upset to eat yours, I'm sure I can find them a happy home.