It sounded like
such a great scheme in my head,
when my sons poo-pooed toast
and said, “Waffles instead!”

But surely I missed
an ominous sign
when the old waffle maker
was so damn hard to find.

It began with a “no” 
to the bag of Krusteaz,
from which even I 
can craft waffles that please.

“Oh no,” they both said,
“we’re not eating those,”
so soon Bisquick powder
coated both of their toes.

I watched as my seven-year-old
squished his raw egg,
and the batter flew right from his whisk
to my leg,

And I tried to ignore 
the sobering fact
that each waffle I cooked 
came out all charred and black.

A nicer mom 
probably would have said, “It’s okay,”
but that didn’t happen
in my house today.

Lesson learned, waffles burned,
all further conviction
that I really should stay
the Hell away from my kitchen.