Essay One: Food Narrative

Julia Burchfield
Adam Weinstein
EN 101-099
September 6, 2007

Snoopy Waffles

It is an ordinary Sunday morning in July, and I, an 8 year old girl, am running down the stairs as quickly as a can. I am not even fazed that it is 8 o’clock in the morning; all I can think about is the smell that is coming from the kitchen. My younger sister and I sit across from each other at the breakfast table, grinning from ear to ear. We both know what is coming. I glance in the kitchen at my father; he is in his robe preparing our feast before we head off to church. He is working over our meal diligently, making sure that it is cooked to perfection. After what seems like hours of waiting, it is done. He comes out of the kitchen and gently places the plates in front of us. I smile down at my food, and it smiles back up at me, literally.
Ever since I can remember, my father would cook my sister and I “Snoopy Waffles” every Sunday. We had a waffle iron that shaped the batter into Snoopy’s smiling face. My father could have made an ordinary waffle of pancake, but I would not have been the same. Every Sunday I looked forward to seeing Snoopy on my plate before I got dressed for 9 o’clock church. My father would even cut the Snoop waffle for me, so Snoopy would still remain in his original shape. After I would drench Snoopy in Aunt Jemima’s syrup, I would eat him one body part at a time; starting with his nose, then his ear, then his eye and so on. After I would devour Snoopy’s entire face I would run back upstairs and get ready for church.
I am not sure how my father came about obtaining this unique waffle maker. I am sure he was out shopping, saw the waffle maker, and thought that my sister and I would enjoy it. Little did he know that that waffle iron would produce my favorite breakfast of all time. I continued to eat Snoopy waffles throughout my life until recently. I am still surprised the waffle iron made it through all those years, houses and bunt batter; however it never ceased to make my favorite food. When I was 12 years old, I would still get my dad to cut my Snoopy waffle for me, because no matter how hard I tried I could never master the art of keeping Snoopy together. Even when I cooked the waffles myself, they never seemed to be as good as when my father made them.
Unfortunately, when I turned 13 years old, my parents got a divorce. It was a very hard for me to handle. I could not stand eating at the dinner table because my dad’s chair was always empty. It was during meals and the evening when it was the hardest for me, because that was when I mostly talked to my dad. However, the hardest day was Sunday, because my dad would not be in his robe cooking my Snoopy waffles. My mother tried, but she never could cut Snoopy the way my dad did. I never complained about it, but she knew that it was our routine. The most unfortunate part about my parents spitting up was it was around Christmas. I remember it specifically because my dad had a one bedroom apartment with a small plastic Christmas tree. I nearly broke into tears whenever I would walk into the apartment. But the one thing I remember most about that Christmas was what I had for dinner the first night I visited my dad. When my sister and I sat across from each other, we had the most depressed looks on our faces. Then my father walked out of the kitchen and gently set our plates in front of us. Sure enough, there was Snoopy smiling up at me from my plate. Although it was a hard Christmas to go through, the Snoopy waffle that night made me realize that even though my parents were separated, my parents still loved me, and my home was wherever I made it. It did not matter if my parents lived the same house; everything was still going to be the same.
My father moved three more times and brought the Snoopy waffle maker with him. Whenever we would unpack boxes we always made sure the Snoopy waffle maker was there so we could have a good breakfast the next morning. My dad recently got remarried and had two children, whom I adore. I was excited that we had new members of the family to be part of our waffle tradition, until the worst thing happened. The Snoopy waffle maker made it through all our hard times, until recently when it finally died. My father went on E-bay to see if we could buy another Snoopy waffle maker, but he was surprised to find that the waffle maker is a collector’s item, and is worth over $400. As a result, my father did not get a new Snoopy waffle maker, but he swears he is going to get it fixed so my little brother and sister can enjoy them as much as I did.
I relate to the Snoopy waffle because no matter where I go and how many changes I go through, I will always have a home. I will always have a family that loves me and wants me around. No matter how many times I move, break, or mess up they will be there to “fix” me and make everything better. I don’t think this was the impression the inventor of the Snoopy waffle maker wanted to get out of his consumers. I am sure he just thought that children would enjoy eating a waffle in the shape of their favorite TV character instead of an ordinary circular or square waffle. However to me, and maybe to some other abnormal waffle eaters, the Snoopy waffle maker brought a tradition to my family that will hopefully continue.