When waffles stick to the grill

A few weeks ago, my cousin Jason, his wife Andrea, and his daughter Abby came over to help trim the apple tree in the backyard. It looked beautiful-- blossoms covered the entire tree, making my backyard feel like an orchard. But alas, it was not meant to stay up. The tree had to be trimmed (damn power lines), and it now looks like a balder, leaner version of its former self.

*before the trim

While my mom, Jay and Andrea slaved over a power saw in the backyard and bundled sticks all day, I played with Abby. Being an only child, I ate up the chance to muck around playing hide and go seek and paint water colour portraits on the kitchen floor. I'd been planning to make waffles with Abby on our balling new Cuisinart waffle iron, but my Bachan ("grandma" in Japanese), had already mixed together all the ingredients. Now all that was left to do was pour them into the waffle iron and wait for them to get golden brown. As much as I appreciated the help, I was a little crestfallen. I wanted to be the one to measure and mix the ingredients together. Biting my tongue, I poured the first batch of batter into the waffle iron, smoothing out the thick, viscous mixture to ensure it covered every square of the grid. Bachan told me that she had sprayed Pam over the iron already, so I trusted that it was well greased for cooking.
But when the waffle iron buzzed and I went to open it, I was greeted with a sticky and crusty mess. The Pam had evaporated after the iron was pre-heated, and the waffles were stuck on both sides of the iron. I had to spend about 15 minutes scraping the waffle iron with a chopstick, flaking off what would have been a delicious and perfect treat.

Bachan watched me from the kitchen table as bits of waffle crumbles spread across her counter.

"Here I thought I was being helpful," she said as she apologized for the mess.

And then I realized how selfish I had been. Here I was, wishing that I could have done all of the preparation on my own terms, when all my Bachan wanted to do was lend a hand. She had even mentioned to me earlier how she wished she could have helped Jay in the backyard with the tree. My Bachan, an 87-year-old woman, wanted to help my firefighter cousin trim a tree in the backyard.

Our entire family is full of helpful people, but Bachan, as the matriarch, stands out in my mind the most. I think about how lazy I am, spending my free time on MSN or napping while she wishes she could just do more. She bowls every Friday. She walks up to the Price Chopper with her walker to buy her own groceries. She goes out in the garden to pull weeds, supporting herself with a cane.

As she sits in her pink easy chair, laughing to herself as she watches Japanese TV, I can only hope that by the time I'm in my 80s, I have half as much energy and strength as she does.