Some mornings I wake up with a fierce craving for waffles. It’s as if the Dream Gnomes had ushered me to WaffleWorld itself and crowned me queen of the buttermilk malted. This morning’s waffle craving was a particularly powerful one; it altered the course of my entire Saturday. Now, I haven’t always been a fiend, but I suspect my recent enthusiasm is the product of two things: 1.) The hubbub around the soon-to-open Black: Coffee and Waffle Bar in my neighborhood, and 2.) a successful binge watch of Leslie Knope’s waffle-centric antics on the brilliant TV series Parks and Rec.
My beeline to the waffle-stocked freezer was immediate upon waking– and ended rather unhappily and just as suddenly. (Yes, frozen waffles ARE waffles too, for any suspecting critics out there. Some of my favorites, in fact.) It turned out my lovely gosh-danged roommate had eaten the last frozen dream. (Next time I’ll have to remind him to leggo my organic Eggo.) Stunned, I stared blankly into the freezer for a good two minutes making sure a waffle wouldn’t finally show itself, and then gazed blankly out the dining room window onto a nondescript landscape accepting the apocalypse was upon us. The Waffacylypse.
But then, though, I rescinded my acceptance of the Waffacylypse and decided to settle for second best with a quick stroll to the pastry counter at Colossal Cafe. Because a Saturday morning with some sort of baked good is much better than one without.
It wasn’t a waffle, but my blackberry scone was really, really good. Hands down the best scone I’ve had in the Twin Cities. Ever. Really. It’s worth going on about. By the last bite of my scone, I wasn’t even so sure if maybe I’d been craving a scone all along, and just hadn’t known it. I expected so much goodness out of a waffle that it took me a while to realize that equal goodness exists in other forms if only I open my mind to them.
I’ve had a similar realization about life in the Twin Cities lately. I’ve lived here for almost two years now, and until recently, I’ve been looking for New York City rather desperately all around Minneapolis and Saint Paul. My fast-paced job, my hodge-podge of true friends, my quaint mini-apartment life, my shops and the streets and the restaurants–most of you who know me even a little know I love my two years in New York something fierce. It’s that time in my life that everything gets compared to–something would have to be awfully great to be as good as that NYC life. You know how it goes. It’s pride at its best.
As a result, there were a few moments in which my Twin Cities life felt lacking. The friends, the opportunities, the buzz, the stories–everything I had in Saint Paul somehow never felt valid. It just wasn’t quite good enough merely because it wasn’t happening in NYC. But I have it all here, and more. It may have taken me almost two years to comfortably say: when life doesn’t give you waffles, there’s bound to a pretty amazing blackberry scone waiting for you if you’re patient enough to look for it. Minnesota, I’m home.