Waffle machine becomes literary nautical metaphor

The mammoth monstrous beast of a waffle machine razed many an attempted meal of foolhardy contenders, akin to a thunderously massive whale upon a lofty ship. / Photo by Matt Stein

Call me Quick Meal, because that’s what I wanted. An easy, simple breakfast for lunch at the Deece, specifically a waffle.

Whenever I find myself growing grim about the stomach, whenever it is a mundane, mediocre Deece meal to my soul, whenever I mentally find myself involuntarily pausing before breakfast diners, whenever it requires a strong moral principle to prevent my stomach from deliberately rumbling—then, I account it high time to eat a waffle as soon as I can.

Before me lay the great silver contraption, the Carbon’s Golden Malted Better Batter Dispenser®. After countless mere passings to my table, finally I would engage in battle with the great silver beast. I already bore a burn mark on my left forearm, bestowed upon me from our last skirmish.

Previously the grand gadget was not in working order, broken like the shell of man on the high seas. Leavings of dough levelled at the bank of the beast, like a cenotaph to the previous failed expeditions with the great silver contraption. Nevertheless, I try all culinary challenges, I achieve what I can.

The odds were not in my favor when I left my Deece table of a harbor. Right above the device usually lay minuscule plastic cups for the batter. But not that day. Instead, an experienced cook such as I improvised and used the distant Dixie Cups. Feeble to the sticky and hefty batter, these cups could not withstand substantial pressure. This left me no choice but to fill in the dreaded Golden Malted Waffle Baker® in successive pourings.

Each push of the “Push” lever expelled a mighty stream of waffle batter. With my Dixie Cup vessel, I transported the batter into the iron, oblivious to the fray ahead. Each round of replenishment covered the individual squares of the mighty beast until all that remained was a mold of the black Waffle Baker.

Relying on my waffle-making experience (by following the iron’s instructions), I rotated the monstrous beast in a swift and piercing moment. The only war I had now was with time. For two minutes and 30 seconds, the waffle formed under the heated belly of the Carbon’s Golden Malted Waffle Baker’s® hull.

This resolved joy was belied by my foolhardiness: I had overlooked the Vegetable Oil Spray. Like a vengeful sea captain miscalculating the size and ferocity of a sperm whale, my culinary solecism stultified my metaphorical ballast, metamorphosing from an effulgent erudite into an ignominious buffoon for the nonce.

As the tides turned and the current swept me under with pressure, a duel of fundamental providence arose between the Carbon’s Golden Malted Waffle Baker® and my pursuit for a quick meal. A pod of onlookers materialized by the starboard of the hub as the dwindling countdown fell to zero. My own boatswain, I unfurled the iron’s rigging, observing the disaster like a lookout in the crow’s nest.Upon sight, the edible barge was split in twain.

To eschew my course from social leeway, I salvaged the shipwreck of my waffle as if keeling at 20 knots. Scraping the iron to retain as much of the framework as possible, shambles of waffle gathered on the plate. As the last whelmings dispelled from the demon, I retired to my fate. What was once an unleavened outline of a waffle now reposed as a crumbled mass of crisp dough. Underneath the metaphorical water went the captain Ahab of my meal.

Oft I reflect on that ominous campaign. And what does the waffle machine represent? Some may believe it to be a metaphor for God, nature, fate, the universe or even the ocean. I don’t quite know myself. What I do know is that I made a rapacious ostentation against the divine powers of the universe to create a utopic culmination of a waffle.

Then all collapsed, and the great shroud of the Carbon’s Golden Malted Waffle Machine® rolled on as it rolled on 5000 Deece days ago.

A tarnished wreck of a vessel, my waffle lay in repose upon the marble
tombstone of a plate, eulogizing my failed crusade at a utopic repast. / Photo by Matt Stein

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