My prison serves pancakes on Mondays. I wish, sometimes, they would make waffles instead. Waffles are more interesting than pancakes.
Before I came to prison, I often made waffles with my son. He was little then, and making waffles was our weekend ritual. We would top the waffles with strawberries and whipped creme, or I’d let him fill the batter with chocolate chips. I remember my son’s delightfully shy, but sneaky personality. Waffles with chocolate chips felt like dessert for breakfast. We were breaking the rules and this was our mischief.
In prison, I have seen people add toppings to their pancakes. My neighbor adds slices of banana, peanut butter and chocolate syrup that he purchases from the commissary, the prison general store.
Prison food feels intentionally bad, and he says that by making the food good he is rebelling against the prison industrial complex. I think he is just hungry.
For me, the weekend-waffle-making ritual is a cherished memory. I remember once how I set his plate of waffles in front of my son and he showed me his tooth-missing smile. His smiles were the greatest compliments.
My neighbor makes his pancakes with a grin, not a smile.
I have been incarcerated for eleven years. Making waffles feels so long ago, but also like yesterday.
I worry that the routine of prison will be cement poured onto my soul, that I’ll become institutionalized and forget how to make decisions. I worry that I will become so regimented that if I don’t have pancakes on Mondays I’ll have a panic attack, and waffles will become an unthinkable breakfast option. For now, at least, I only miss waffles.
But to say I miss waffles feels particularly uncreative. As if the verb is not important enough to accurately describe my feelings. I may never eat another pancake without thinking of prison. Yet, I could eat waffles everyday for the rest of my life and somehow I would still miss them, because I cannot relive the moments with my son that have passed. | PL