I love waffles. I love the crunchy, pocketed texture of waffles freshly baked in my heart-shaped waffle iron. I delight in their golden color. Just writing about waffles evokes the delicious hot-buttered bread scent of waffles. And the toppings, think of the endless possibilities for waffle toppings: real maple syrup, marmalade, or jams like apricot, peach, and cherry.
But waffling is another issue altogether, I do not like it at all. I am usually decisive, and I am uncomfortable with people who waffle. When I myself waffle it feels at best unpleasant and at worst distressing. I am always relieved to come to a good, firm, final decision.
A random, popup internet definition of "to waffle" is to fail to make up one's mind, such as to waffle on an important matter. It omits the traditional definition of a crisp cake baked in a waffle iron. What is the world coming to if delicious waffles are forgotten?
Abstract—Waffled Texture Lit
by Annmarie Throckmorton 2021