A satire.

Nothing so empowers me like a waffle iron. Forget therapy dogs, noise-canceling headphones, or weighted blankets—the true travel companion is a solid, chrome-plated Belgian beauty, TSA-approved for carry-on. The airport agent looks at me quizzically as it passes through the X-ray machine. “Sir, is this… an appliance?” Yes, officer, an appliance of the soul.

Some people bring neck pillows; I bring the mighty iron. At cruising altitude, I place it lovingly beneath my one inch thick airline-issued pillow. The faint perfume of yesterday’s batter wafts upward—vanilla, cinnamon, a whisper of baking soda—and I sink into dreams of golden grids. I drool freely, but what is drool if not syrup in prelude?

The other passengers gawk, of course. One woman clutches her pearls when I tuck it in like a child. A businessman suggests I check it in the overhead bin. Ha! Would he stow his emotional support ferret in row 22B? I think not.

My ardor is no different at my destination. Hotel rooms become chapels of carbohydrate reverence. I wake, press the iron to my chest like a knight’s shield, and murmur, “Today, we make batter.” Sometimes I don’t even plug it in—I just listen to the hinge creak as my choir during morning prayers.

Do I need professional help? Perhaps. But waffles are the architecture of joy. A perfect grid to hold the chaos of toppings—syrup rivers, butter mountains, berry avalanches. And in the geometry of those squares, I find order in the universe.

So yes, I sleep with a waffle iron under my pillow. Some dream of sugarplums. I dream of brunch.

A favorite from Key and Peele: