Belgian Waffles

Last night, it was a most delicious May evening, a polite battle of the hot end of the day with cool evening breezes and we trotted over to our friends house where the dad with a nice sharp new short haircut and a bit more tan than last week, was looking good and cooking up a mess of Belgian Waffles.

Belgian Waffles the crunchy, deep, corrugated kind, next to three blessed bowls of summer fruit -- strawberries, raspberries, blueberries -- and an army of whipped cream cans deployed and standing tall at the ready for a houseful of kids -- all boys, an 8- year-old, two 9's then two 11's and the 13 was off at a friend's house down the road, I guess. Neighbors came by to chat and admire the waffles, I'm sure you could smell the fresh burn of the waffle iron a few houses down.

The Mom and I were ensconced on the couch in the living room, sipping tonic, and recounting long ago romances. One son was stealthy, over in the corner, pretending to read -- READ?! -- on such a summer night, when he could be tearing around in the yard outside with his brothers, but we knew better. He couldn't resist eavesdropping. At one particularly hot spot in the story, he blurts out the exact word I had just whispered to his mom, showing he wasn't missing a single syllable of our girl talk. We bite his little head off and tell him to mind his own business.

In the kitchen, there is something perfectly holy about the way the light shines down on the scene of a delicious May evening with friends.