So, here you have it – the reason why I’m neither a food editor nor a food stylist. These waffles were a little project I undertook last Sunday afternoon, the result of not a little soul-searching as to my fallibility as a food oracle, as well as providing a means to confirm for once and for all my suspicions that I am unlikely to be publishing a cookbook spin-off from this blog any time soon.
So, waffles were my oracular shot in the dark. I had this niggling feeling that they were going to be the next big thing. I’m sure I’d already subliminally absorbed the information somewhere else (for all I know, waffles have already made a comeback and gone out of fashion again). But if they’re not the next big thing – or they were and have already been elbowed aside by galette bretonne or some other doughy receptacle for other, far more toothsome, ingredients – I now know why. A waffle’s raison d’être is simply that of a series of handy, regularly spaced pockmarks to fill with maple syrup, then pile with fruit and ice cream.
Like most Australian politicians, they have no intrinsic value in themselves.
Even my, usually indulgent, mother told me not to give up my day job. She was my official taster. The poor creature had been foolishly anticipating a Sunday lunch of roast beef with all the trimmings, and all she got to eat was a flaccid pile of over-embellished craters.
Standing up at the kitchen bench, to add insult to injury.
I really am a crap daughter.
Luckily, we could laugh about it, and, it turns out, laughter really is the best medicine.
But only after the painkillers have kicked in.
Suffice to say, the unseemly sexual tension between my culinary prowess and iPhone camera has reached its perfunctory climax, and I can now leave the people who do this stuff really well to get on with it, and get back to doing what I do reasonably enough.
But note that if waffles persist, please see your medical practitioner.