Manning the Waffles

 I manned the waffle machines at Sunday breakfast in my parish’s dining hall yesterday. That was not my plan, but that’s what happened. The regular wafflers, as I like to call them, were otherwise engaged. I was the only young-enough old guy to manage the manufacture of the rigid pancake creations. 

 The sausage guy was there. The money changer was there. The set up guys were already done by the time I got there. They were a half-hour early and were done. The volunteers who made all the batter were done. The burrito buyers delivered their goods. I had done my planned syrup and squeeze-bottle butter containers for 10 tables. 

 Joanne set up for children’s liturgy while we were working and I gave her a wave as she left for Mass with an inference that I’d be joining her. 

 It was now time for the wafflers to get the four griddles hot, and the heated pans for stacked waffles prepared. I was ready to head to Mass, and the guy in charge of set up was panting. He had no wafflers. He didn’t want to be the waffler. I could tell. He had Mass on his mind and family to attend to. So, I grabbed an apron and lifted my arm in the air. I handed him my envelope to put in the basket, and I got my waffler instructions. 

 No Mass today. I was the waffle wing man. I saw Joanne come in later with the little ones. She was surprised I was there, but figured everything out when she saw the apron, the steaming waffle irons already popping out breakfast for the expected crowd, and my sheepish shrug. I was halfway through the manufacturing when they finished, timed to last as long as the priest’s homily. No Mass today for me. 

 Did you know that waffle making can be prayerful? With four griddles going, it’s not like fingering a rosary when driving, or going through a prayer list of sick folks when vacuuming. It’s got timing issues, and a dozen other people’s preparations already involved. It’s probably a lot like being the upholstery guy in the chair making business. It’s not a commercially viable chair until the seat fabric is tacked on. Somebody else built the legs, the seat frame, and the back. Somebody else sanded, stained, and shellacked the chair. Someone else supplied the manufacturing space, and will be selling the chairs. The customers aren’t there yet, but they are coming soon. Except 100 people aren’t standing in Church waiting to go buy a chair. Let’s go with another analogy. 

 Praying through the pouring, checking and removing of the waffles from the griddle is like being the catcher in a baseball game. We finger the number of outs to the outfielders, we size up the batter and tell him he’s a twit, we arrange the pad behind our mitt to even out the bruising, we suggest to the pitcher where to put the ball even though he’s a prima donna who’ll throw it wherever the hell he wants, we crouch down to make an easy target and stretch our hand out into harms way from a dangerously swung wooden weapon, we feel the breath of the umpire down our necks, we worry about our private parts, we doubtfully expect everybody else to do their job when the ball doesn’t land in our glove, and we mutter “Dear God, what a great game this is,” for the fortieth time that day. 

But the World Series is over, and my team didn’t make it, and probably never will again, so the analogy is older than that third batch of batter. “Batter up” takes on a whole different meaning when you’re the waffler. “Dear God, what a good thing to be the waffler.” 

 I had fun. The sausages were the best part. The burritos came in a close second. My waffles were a bit too soggy, too many for the crowd, but tasted pretty good with squeezed butter and cheap syrup on a paper plate. 

 God is good.