Roll up for breakfast

Not without reason is it said necessity is the mother of invention.

Apparently, though, it’s also the mother of mad genius — especially when Saturday morning waffles are on the line.

As with so many good plans that suddenly go sideways, having waffles for breakfast, complete with Saskatoon berry compote and vanilla-bean ice cream, seemed pretty much foolproof.

After all, we had our favourite recipe.

We had all the necessary ingredients, including eggs, which I usually run out of so unpredictably as to warrant the purchase of a hen.

And, well, we had a waffle-maker that hadn’t failed us in more than a decade.

What nobody had told us, however, is that 10 years is pretty much geriatric in terms of small household appliances — elderly and infirm, even, particularly in an age when,

to facilitate a lively landfill economy, all things are engineered with a built-in lifespan.

(Right about now, my grandma’s low-tech stovetop model seems pretty inspired).

Nevertheless, ignorant of the fatality switch that was about to be tripped, our waffle iron heated up as dutifully as it ever had.

And, with a pleasing sizzle, the first ladle of waffle batter began to cook, filling the kitchen with the vanilla waft of a day-off breakfast.

And then it happened.

Before the first waffle could even crisp up, while it was still a nascent circle of anaemic, half-cooked batter, the waffle iron gave up its ghost and went to its everlasting peace.

Amen.

Then, as always happens when the ones left behind are made to suffer the most, all hopes of breakfast seemed dashed.

Still pyjamaed and therefore unable to make it to the Cuisinart store while a morning meal was still viable, there didn’t seem to be a Plan B.

A quick rundown of our small appliance inventory didn’t seem to yield much hope.

What use, after all, is a coffee grinder, citrus juicer or crockpot when confronted with rapidly de-leavening breakfast batter?

None, that’s what.

But then, eureka!

There, in the pantry, next to the mixmaster and breadmaker, was our shiny new Panini press, barely out of its box.

A recent purchase made in a moment of toasted sandwich zeal, now it was a beacon of encouragement: a runneled iron, like unto a waffle press — or, at least, it was as close as anything was gonna get on short notice.

So, with hope, and breakfast, rekindled, we ladled another batter spoonful onto the improvised iron and, voila!

Not waffles, exactly, but flat, corrugated quasi-crepes which, when stuffed with ice cream and smothered with berries, quickly became a new classic henceforth known as the “Waffle Rollup.”

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