April 23, 2025

By Marcus T. Bellamy

I’ve never admitted this out loud before. Not to anyone. But maybe it’s time I come clean, even if it’s years too late and no one’s actually asking for the truth anymore.

Back in high school, I had a bit of a “habit.” Let’s just say I got very into herbal recreation. One night, I got the munchies something fierce—like, “I need to eat something sweet and warm or I will physically perish” level of hunger. And for some reason, my brain landed on waffles. Not just any waffles—chocolate ones.

So there I am in the kitchen at 1 a.m., high as a kite, mixing batter like I’m auditioning for MasterChef. Only problem? The waffle iron was in the garage, because my mom thought it was “taking up too much counter space.” (Translation: she didn’t trust any of us not to break it.)

Now, this waffle iron wasn’t fancy, but it had history. One of those old models that needed to be flipped midway through cooking. We’d had it since I was in elementary school. It was scratched, slightly dented, and kind of gross in that “clean but not really” way—but my dad loved it. Swore it made better waffles than any new one could.

Anyway, I plug it in, pour the batter, and wait. After a few minutes, it beeps. And here’s where it all goes off the rails.

See, in my altered state, I totally forgot the flipping step. So I go to open it like a normal appliance, and it’s jammed. Totally stuck. My high brain panics. Smoke’s starting to curl up, and my paranoia hits full volume. I’m picturing the whole garage burning down over a midnight snack.

So I yank. And pull. And—CRACK.

The lid flies off. A metal hinge shoots across the room like a bullet. The inside looks like someone tried to waffle a brick. And me? I’m just standing there, covered in chocolate batter, holding the broken remains like some kind of stoner Frankenstein.

My immediate thought? Hide the evidence.

So I do the only thing my teen brain can come up with—I clean up the mess, put the pieces back as neatly as I can, and stash it behind some paint cans in the garage.

The next morning, my dad finds it. He walks into the kitchen holding it like a wounded animal and asks, “Who broke the waffle iron?”

I freeze. My mom turns and just glares at him.

I don’t say a word.

No one else does either.

And he takes the fall.

To this day, my mom still brings it up when she’s mad. “Remember when you broke the waffle iron and wouldn’t admit it?” And he always sighs and says, “Yeah, that was a dumb night.”

I never had the heart to tell him. Maybe it’s because I felt guilty. Or maybe because, in a weird way, it felt like this small thing that let me off the hook during a time when I was messing up more than just kitchen appliances.

But, Dad, if you somehow see this: I’m sorry. I owe you a waffle iron. And maybe a whole damn breakfast.