Journals and waffles.

I wanted to write about waffles today, but the words just wouldn't come, which is pretty often the case whenever I sit down to write a post. So I got up from the computer, walked upstairs to the old red dresser in our living room, the one that belonged to Murdo's grandma and which is home to about 10 junk drawers, to find a pile of journals. Maybe if I couldn't type the words onto the screen, I could scribble them into a journal.

As it turned out, I didn't have anything to write about waffles in my journal, either. But the words still came, ramblings about this and that tumbling out, like a sigh of relief as I made sense of the thoughts in my head.

I used to do that on a more regular basis -- put pen to paper and just let the thoughts turn into words, like magic. There is something about writing in a journal that makes writing more about just getting the thoughts onto the page and less about crafting sentences that other people will read. When I write in a journal, I can close the cover and maybe never read those words again, but still feel a sense of satisfaction from the filled pages and the cramped hand. I can still feel a slight callus on my left ring finger, just below the finger nail, developed from writing constantly, and it makes me feel almost proud. It's not as inky or prominent as it once was, but it's still there -- the mark of a writer that has become a permanent, physical part of me.

So today, I don't have much to say about these waffles, other than I bought a waffle maker a few weeks ago after I had a craving for pancakes and had asked Murdo if he liked pancakes and he told me he likes waffles better. And when I casually mentioned to his mother that I was thinking about buying a waffle maker and she told me, "Fried eggs are great on waffles," well, I was sold. Here are the pictures of my first batch, and a link to the recipe for Waffles of Insane Greatness, which I found through Orangette and which is such a simple, solid recipe that there is no need to look for another.

Hm. I guess I did have a few things to say about waffles, after all. Also, here is a poem I wrote on the first page of my neon orange spiral-bound journal on August 3, 2001, when I was 17 years old.

laugh
laughter.
many kinds of laughs.
there's the short,
polite ones.
someone just said something
"funny."
laugh, or there'll be that
awkward silence.
laugh, or you'll feel
uncomfortable.
laugh, or the other
person will feel
stupid.
there are the go-along ones.
everyone else is laughing.
what's so funny?
i don't really
get it.
i don't know what that
word means.
i don't know who that
person is.
but laugh anyway.
there the silent laughs.
the ones that
hurt.
can't stop laughing
look at the other person
and laugh harder.
'til your sides are
in pain.
'til there's tears
streaming down.
'til you look like an
idiot.
laugh some more.
it feels good.
yeah. i like those ones
the best.