Waffle Love

So, I am a from scratch baker - always. I enjoy it. In moments of stress I turn to cooking. I bake when I'm happy too, and generally whenever the kids or my husband talk me into it. I've never really seen anything wrong with this. After all, it brings me pleasure, and I can make my family's baked goods healthier than the store bought alternatives.

The other morning gave me pause though. Could I have spoiled my family with my from scratch baking?

This is what happened. We had all had a busy day on Saturday. M-girl and I had a three hour long retreat to prepare for her upcoming First Communion. My hubby and the boys spent the day painting the Florida room, in preparation for our upcoming party to celebrate said Communion. Then in the evening, we all attended a teen event at the church to which families were invited. (In the interest of complete disclosure, K-boy urged us not to go and possibly embarrass him in front of his friends said he understood if we were too busy to attend. Ha! BadDad and I wouldn't have missed it for the world!)

Usually we like to attend Saturday Evening Mass if we can. It just fits our schedule. Last week there just wasn't time. We decided to get everyone up and ready in time to go to the 8:30am mass on Sunday.

My offspring aren't exactly morning people, so on Sunday morning I decided to help ease them awake by making waffles. The only thing was I felt pressed for time, as I still had to get myself ready and make sure everyone was ready to leave on time. "No problem", I thought to myself, "I'll just do what normal people do and use a baking mix to speed things up."

I happened to have a whole-grain baking mix in the pantry, leftover from a camping trip. I mixed up the batter for banana nut, semi-homemade waffles in no time flat. Once the first batch was sizzling in the waffle iron, I called the kids. "Look!", I exclaimed, "I made you waffles."

They began drifting into the dining room, just as I set a platter of steaming waffles onto the table. Once their waffles were slathered with butter and drowned in syrup they dug in. They ate a few bites, and stopped. Bear in mind these kids usually wolf down at least two waffles each, even the little one.

I urged them to eat, telling them they'd be hungry in church if they didn't finish breakfast. Finally M-girl spoke up. "Mom", she said, "these waffles aren't the same as usual. They weren't made with love. Where's the love, Mom?" Her brothers seemed to concur. D-boy just looked at me sadly, as if I'd let him down somehow. K-boy later termed them, "Yucky Waffles".

I have only myself to blame for spoiling my family. I've ruined their taste for convenience foods. The major brands have offered easy alternatives to homemade all these years, and I've still done things the hard way. I'll just have to suffer for my deeds. My poor children though. They're either going to have to learn to cook or adjust their taste-buds by the time they grow up.