“Why do we have to have waffles again?” I moan, glaring at the pile.
“Because they’re delicious,” Sheila says, forking heart-shaped waffles onto her plate. One. Two. Three. The fourth one is mine, but it sits there cooling while I protest.
“I want pancakes,” I declare, crossing my arms.
“Too bad,” Mom says, returning to the kitchen. “We can have pancakes next weekend.”
The saving grace on the table is the giant mound of crispy bacon. I grab most of it in a double handful, leaving the waffles untouched.
“Excuse you, sir.” Mom’s voice carries from the kitchen. “Leave some bacon for the rest of us.” How did she know?
“Grrr,” I mutter, returning some of the bacon.
Sheila laughs, dumping a lake of syrup on her waffle hoard. “Did you actually grrr at me?”
“GRRR.” It’s not like waffles are so bad, but once you’ve made a stand it’s hard to back down. “People should know by now not to make me eat waffles.”
“People should be grateful there is food on the table,” Mom calls. “Eat it or don’t. Up to you.”
“I didn’t know you don’t like waffles,” Sheila says around a mouthful. “You ate them last week and didn’t say anything.”
My grrr face returns. “Maybe there are lots of things you don’t know about me.” In the moment, I don’t know where it comes from, to say that, but the truth of it is as deep as my bones.
“Maybe there are lots of things you don’t know about me, too,” Sheila whispers. “Like, did you know”—she takes the point of one of the waffle hearts between her teeth, letting it hang down over her chin, dripping syrup everywhere—“I’m a waffle monster?” She holds two pieces of bacon on either side of her nose like a mustache. Then she jams them into the corners of her mouth, behind the waffle, and lunges across the table toward me, her long arms extended and tickling until I’m shrieking with laughter and the table is dribbled with syrup that Mom will make us wipe up in a minute. But it’s worth it.