I love road trips.
Ask anyone who grew up in the 1970s about family vacations
and you’ll hear some shared themes: getting stuck sitting in the middle, one
leg spraddled on either side of the transmission hump; playing the license
plate game; facing backwards in the far rear “seat” of the station wagon; being
at the mercy of the radio wherever you were. None of this fancy-schmancy
mini-van life with on-demand DVDs, personal electronics, and comfort. Road trips
in the 70s were a character-building experience.
I spent a lot of time building character with my aunt Alice and cousin Jacqueline, roaming the country in a wood-sided station wagon hauling a pop-up camper. A lot of our trips were to amusement parks in Ohio; my aunt was a thrill-seeker and adored roller coasters. One of my earlier memories involves her hauling my definitely-not-a-thrill-seeker mom onto The Beast by the straps of her stylish overalls romper. We went to Florida. We visited the relatives in Kansas. There was an epic multi-week adventure to Texas that is the stuff of family legends.
There were a few constants in these trips that were specific
to Aunt Alice. The first was Bisquick waffles, baked to absolute perfection on
a beast of a waffle iron, at least 25 pounds of cast-iron plates and heat-conducive
plastic handles and iffy wiring. It was the only place I’d ever seen waffles
outside of a restaurant, and to this day the smell makes me feel like I’m at a
campground. It had enormous square plates divided into quarters, so it was
easier to split the waffles up as they came out; I can’t even imagine how much
batter you would need to actually cover the entire plate, but never in my life
have I seen a square waffle come out of one of these. David and I spent a
summer trolling garage sales to find the same waffle iron; our lightweight, enclosed-hinge,
Teflon-coated modern one just didn’t do the same job. I think of Aunt Alice
every time we use it.
The second constant was hyper-competitive games of Boggle. I
had a pretty good vocabulary as a kid, but I don’t do well under pressure. My
dream in life was to beat my aunt at one of these games we played, crowded
around the tiny pop-up dining table by lantern light. (I never did. It is,
however, one of the few games I can reliably beat my kids at.)
And finally – awfully – there was the dummy. Yes, an actual
ventriloquist’s dummy, a horrible, creepy, staring ventriloquist’s dummy. I don’t
know what compelled my cousin to decide that ventriloquism was a skill her
pre-teen self needed to learn, but I spent many, many hours being creeped out
by that damn thing. And I surely don’t know what compelled my aunt to put it in
the pop-up camper before our trips, or what made her think it was funny to make
the dummy look up my nightgown. As a kid, it made me cry. As an adult, I’m 100%
sure that – terrorizing me aside – it was probably one of the funniest nights
of my life, because my aunt was hilarious. My mom laughed until she cried. I
would give a lot to have one of those flickery home movies of whatever the
night’s monologue was.
The subject of the dummy came up at her husband’s funeral a
few years ago. I commented that I remembered the waffles and the Boggle and the
constant stream of Elvis tunes and yes, the dummy.
“Do you want it?” she asked eagerly.
“God no. You’ve entirely missed the point of the story if
you think I want that thing.”
She laughed then, her distinct wheezing smoker’s laugh, the
one that made her eyes crinkle shut and her whole body shake, and slapped my
shoulder lightly.
“I’m cleaning out the house. You can have it.”
“I really, truly, honestly don’t want it. Please.”
“You can have it!”
My aunt’s sense of humor being what it is, I wouldn’t be
even a tiny bit surprised if she left it to me in her will.
Last week we said goodbye to her for the last time. A
lifetime of smoking caught up to her, and she passed away peacefully in her
sleep at my cousin’s house, where she spent the last 7 months of her life being
pampered and taken out to lunch and made much of, and where her amazing sense
of humor was very much appreciated. I wasn’t close to her as an adult, but my
childhood was shaped by memories of our trips together.
We don’t eat Bisquick waffles, what with the gluten and all,
but waffles are actually pretty easy to make from scratch. You could knock together
a batch in under 5 minutes, easily. If you wish to think ahead a little bit
because you’re paying tribute to some of the best memories of your childhood,
you can’t do any better than overnight waffles. I believe this is originally a
Fannie Farmer recipe, but it’s taken here from Mark Bittman’s How to Cook
Everything. He’s absolutely correct in saying that these need to stay in the
iron a bit longer than the indicator light wants them to; wait until there is
almost no steam coming out of the iron for the crispiest, creamiest, best
possible version of these. They absolutely must be served with Bob Evans link
sausages and warmed syrup.
Overnight Waffles
½ tsp instant yeast
2 cups GF flour blend of your choice
1 Tbsp sugar
½ tsp salt
2 cups milk
8 tablespoons (yes, a whole stick) of butter, melted and
cooled
½ tsp vanilla extract
2 eggs
Before going to bed, combine the dry ingredients. Stir in the milk, butter, and vanilla. Cover with plastic wrap and set aside overnight.
While the waffle iron heats, separate the eggs. Stir the
yolks into the batter. Beat the whites until they hold soft peaks, then fold into
the batter.
Make sure the iron is very hot and oil it well (spray oil is
good here) before ladling batter onto the cooking plate. Ignore the indicator
light and let the waffle cook until the steam stops almost completely.
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