Let me preface this by saying I've never made waffles using Krusteaz. By virtue of the name, I trusted that it would be, you know, eaz-y. In hindsight, my mistake may have been changing the recipe. Instead of 'just adding water', I added milk. I can only assume that was the cause of the explosion.
As I poured the milky batter into the waffle iron, I was careful to fill all of the gaps. You know, the gaps that, when unfilled, cause the final product to be misshapen instead of square. I once ended up with a waffle shaped like Hitler, but that's a story for another time.
As I poured, I noticed that the batter was rising quickly, so I hastened my efforts and snapped the iron closed. Immediately, the batter began oozing out of the sides, which wasn't troubling at all, considering it happens every time I make waffles. The sheer volume of batter-ooze was my only hint that something could be awry. Unshaken and unsuspecting, I returned my attention to the bacon, which was nearing the perfect crispiness. It's a crying shame to allow bacon to overcook.
About 2 minutes later, when 'it' happened, the sound was unique, and it was more surprising than loud. Nobody was looking directly at the waffle iron when it went off. Following the 'boom', we heard the sound of a ricocheting plastic latch-turned-projectile, and an odd sounding thud. It all happened so quickly, none of the witnesses - my wife, daughter, son, Cooper the Dog and me - were able to tell which direction things were flying. As we turned to face the waffle iron, this is what we saw:
The latch, under immense pressure, had given way, and the appliance had blown open. One of the waffles had been violently expelled (the 'thud'), and the lid was hyper-extended. The remaining waffles were smoking like Kirsty Alley's Mini Cooper.
But here's the troubling part. At the time of this writing, our hunt for the missing waffle remains fruitless.
The breakfast pastry is, for lack of a better word, gone. It's not under the table, on the counter, above the cabinets, or on top of the fridge. It's not on the floor. It's not in anything. It's not stuck to the wall somewhere. For all intents and purposes, it has completely disappeared.
Perhaps the waffle is now with the socks. Maybe it shot through a time vortex and now exists sometime in the future. I suppose it could have burst into individual molecules, which are now floating about the house, propelled by ceiling fans. Or, maybe it is now feeding the passengers on flight MH370, the Malaysian Airlines jet that mysteriously disappeared into thin air recently.
Other things we can't find include the blown latch, and anything on the Internet that says milk is combustible, except this
one article.
The good news is, we can toss the waffle iron, instead of going through the trouble of washing it. So there's that. Maybe the cleaning lady will find the waffle when she comes Tuesday. Until then, the story is that, on this date, in this house, a perfectly aimed breakfast appliance exploded, at the same moment a waffle-sized slit formed in the fabric of the universe.
I hope whoever is on the other side has syrup.
