Category — Bread Recipes

The first time I used a waffle iron, I was a freshman in college. The dorm dining hall at my school had a designated table with an iron and a bowl of batter with a ladle in it, and one night when the tacos or chicken surprise on the menu didn’t particularly appeal to me, I walked over to it and, using that adult independence I had newly acquired, made myself buttermilk breakfast for dinner.

In the years between then and now, I’ve eaten homemade waffles in my friend Sue’s kitchen at a different college in a different state, telling her what a good mom she’d make someday as she handed me a plate (by the way, turns out I was right); I’ve had blueberry waffles and pecan waffles and waffles covered with berries and whipped cream and chocolate syrup; in October, my brother and I split a waffle at Sola that was topped with goat cheese and strawberry-rhubarb compote; but it wasn’t until recently that I had the kind of waffle I bring you today, one that defied any preconceptions or previous taste experiences, which works to combine what we know as the waffle with something else entirely, the moist, dense sweetness of a banana bread.
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Not long after discovering Mae Bird, I realized something: I want to go everywhere Amanda takes pictures of and eat everything she cooks. Her photography and stories are truly captivating, so I am thrilled to close out our series of guest posts with this recipe from her!

I feel the transition happening outside, summer to fall, and it is so welcome. The nights are getting cooler, the breeze is coming in, and I swear I can smell it. (Yes, autumn has a smell, I can’t describe, but I recognize it.) Here comes the season of apples, squashes, hot meals and baking — when turning on the oven is actually welcomed and comforting, comforting like a freshly baked treat, cooling on a windowsill.

Speaking of baking, I have a not-so-secret confession.

I can’t get myself to follow directions when baking. Does anyone else have this problem? I’m not alone, right?

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Reading last Monday’s post, where everything was long naps and sunshine, it’s hard to remember the way things were going back in early May, when I told you I was standing on the cusp of several big changes, feeling unsure and afraid, willing my legs to take a step but standing motionless instead.

I don’t really want to talk about those days now, or about how anxious I tended to be in them, but I will, for one reason: what they gave me.

See, what I’m not telling you when I talk about a great weekend, or today when I say, I made homemade cinnamon bread and ate thick slices Sunday morning while I stood in the grass and watched the sunshine, is that those changes—the very ones I’d feared and avoided and tried not to make back in May—while they turned out to be a lot of what I’d dreaded, yes: painful, scary, lonely; they also turned out to be a lot of what I hadn’t expected: led by strength not my own, filled with grace I’d been given—the kinds of things that make blue skies and good conversation and a slice of homemade bread that much sweeter.
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