The Waffle Man wore a white apron and tall white hat. He drove a red truck with smooth round fenders and small wheels. A wooden sign across the top read “Waffles.”
After parking it close to the curb, he arose from his low seat and stepped up to the raised rear platform, taking his place behind his waffle grilles.
We ran to the truck. As he slid open a window, the aroma of oil and frying dough drifted out. “Yes?”
We chirped like baby robins…“Two waffles. I’ll take three. Me too. Just one for me. Extra powdered sugar for me, please.”
By pulling myself up on the window frame, I could see him making the waffles. He dipped his ladle into the creamy mix, poured it onto a corrugated machine, closed the lid and waited.
A puff of steam and a squish of waffle mix hissed from its sides.
In a moment that seemed an eternity, the golden-brown waffles, each a perfect rectangle with small, indented and orderly squares were done.
He placed them on waxed paper that wrinkled from the heat of the waffle and, with a wave of a dented tin can, dressed each of them with snow-white sugar powder. As he opened the window, the heat of the griddle wafted down to us.
He handed our waffles to us with the care of a surgeon.
I reached into my pocket for ten cents and then bit into the soft, warmed, textured treat, savoring the slight crunch of the waffle, eating slowly, licking the sugar off my fingers after each bite.