Grandma’s Romance Waffles

Almost everything we ate growing up was homemade.
Sure, we’d occasionally go out to eat—usually after church or to celebrate when my brother or I won an award at school. And McDonald’s? That was a rare and exciting treat.
But at home, every meal was lovingly prepared by my mother or grandmother, who lived with us throughout my childhood.
From cookies to main courses, and even freshly baked bread, everything was made from scratch.
Of course, we didn’t fully appreciate it at the time. Isn’t that always how it goes?

Lately, I’ve been on this ridiculous headache diet because I had a month-long headache and decided something had to give.
The goal? To “eradicate my triggers.”
And what are these so-called “triggers,” you ask? Oh, just everything good in life: chocolate, cheese, soy, caffeine, citrus fruits, onions, wine, and anything processed.
So basically, FOOD.
I’ve dubbed it the “asshole diet” because that’s exactly what you become while on it.
When every food you love is snatched away like a thief in the night, how can you not?

Realizing I needed to change what I was feeding my body to manage my pain, I decided to ditch processed foods and go back to homemade.
It sounded simple enough—until I actually tried it.
Homemade everything takes time, effort, and planning, three things I’m usually great at. But not in January.
Not when I’d been battling a four-week headache.

On a dreary, chocolate-free Sunday morning, missing my mother in Tennessee more than usual, I texted her. I asked for the recipe for the one thing I felt could truly heal me:
Waffles and syrup, just like Grandma used to make.

The idea had hit me the week before, standing in the grocery store aisle, staring at boxes of frozen waffles. I flipped one over to check the ingredients.
And here’s what I found on every single box in the store:

Isn’t that ingredient list basically a recipe for making a bomb?
Because I definitely don’t want to put that in my stomach—or the stomachs of my children.
I literally threw the box back on the shelf and exclaimed, “DAMMIT, I NEED WAFFLES WITHOUT ACID IN THEM!”

Mom came to the rescue, emailing me not just the recipe of my grandma’s waffles, but the backstory of how they came to be.
According to her, the story goes like this:

Here they are: Grandma and Grandpa’s Romance Waffles.
(Though, let’s be honest—Grandpa probably never made a waffle in his life.)
Still, I’m certain he loved them every bit as much as he loved his wife and daughter.