By: Yasmin Hassan, Staff Writer
In the winter of 2012, in a small elementary school in Burnaby, hallways are lined with handmade Christmas decorations, snowflakes, elves, Santa hats, Christmas trees, and multi-coloured lights on a string. It’s a cold December morning, with the dew outside frozen over the forest’s grass and snow piling up on the outskirts of sidewalks. The classrooms are empty, hallways too, for all the kids and staff are packed into the school gymnasium for the long awaited Santa Breakfast. When I looked at the calendar for the school year, this breakfast was something I made note of from the get go, something I could look forward to — as if second grade was getting me down. Sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with my friends and classmates, eating breakfast foods that, to me, were uncommon, and listening to Christmas music, I watched as the staff entertained us with the principal dressing as old Saint Nick.
As much as I idealized this image of the Santa Breakfast in my head, I was almost always disappointed with my reality of it. For all my time spent at this school I was often let down with what fell on my plate. As I lined up to get my pick of goods from the tireless volunteering parents, I paid close attention to what my classmates got. Their plates had two little sausages, strips of crisped bacon, thick fluffy pancakes layered with syrup and a melting dollop of butter. If we got lucky, we’d get a muffin and hot chocolate with marshmallows. I gazed upon the spread with awe and excitement, wanting to propel myself through the line, even though I knew that would definitely land me on Santa’s naughty list! Still, I waited patiently for my turn as the line would wind up and down the gym, fidgeting with my plate as I eyed my friends in front of me.
When it was my turn, after what felt like ages, I was left with a desolate array of choices. First of all, I couldn’t have any of the protein. My dad is Muslim, so, naturally I grew up not eating pork, and I stood by that promise of never eating it intentionally (even to this day). My breakfast at home usually consisted of ful, eggs, kasha, and salad of some sort, which meant that sugary American-style breakfasts were unheard of in my household. Dietary preferences weren’t a concern for most elementary schools in the 2010’s, or for any public North American institution for that matter. The majority of kids could have sausage and bacon, but unfortunately for people like me, options were limited. My smile quickly turned into a half-hearted grin, but I had hope for the pancakes and waffles at least. There were only a few sad, droopy-looking pancakes left, two orange wedges for fruit, and no milk for hot chocolate, so all I had was the sickly tasting apple juice no one wanted. While I was still happy to be sitting with my friends and sharing a meal put together by hard working parents, I felt a bit robbed of the indulgence that they got to feel. Food to me is a love language and one of the most important things ever as it carries more purpose than to fill your stomach. So, when met with the disappointing leftovers, it definitely made me like one. I started to think that perhaps a lump of coal would’ve been alright with me if it meant I got to have a proper Santa Breakfast.
Fast forward to 2024: It’s my last day of work after dedicating three years of my life to that . . . establishment. A quiet summer morning, Tuesday, there’s been one table for the past hour. I have told no one that it was my last day, hoping not to cause a stir, to slip quietly away from my beloved co-workers. I decided to treat myself to something since it was the last time I could use my employee discount, and I gave into my craving for a waffle.
A freshly made waffle, thick, fluffy and golden-brown, as big as the plate it sat on, the melting dollop of butter waltzing across its doughy grid. I got myself a spout of warmed syrup and, before I went to the back to indulge, I piped a healthy helping of stiff, sweet, whipped cream, straight out of the metal canister. As I walked to the back, I felt sort of giddy inside; how scandalous of me to be enjoying such a silly looking Western delicacy. I poured the syrup across the waffle and cut myself a piece with everything on it.
One moment I’m in the backroom of a restaurant in my uniform, and with one bite, I was taken away to the winter of 2012 with my furry patterned pajamas and fuzzy socks, sitting on the folding chairs of the school gym. This time there were no teachers dressed as elves, no tireless volunteer parents flipping half-burnt pancakes, no shabbily cut out paper ornaments strung with scotch-tape on lacquered white walls of the school gym, there was no one but me and that waffle. The child who once sat hungry, jealous of her peers, was now tasting the purely decadent breakfast she should’ve always had. I sat in that shabby leather seat and savoured each and every bite like it was the first and the last time I’d ever have something that good. With each bite I could feel a bit of my bitterness melt away. I teared up but they were happy tears. Maybe it was the fact that I’d miss my co-workers, the place that had much nostalgia, but I think we can all agree it was that waffle. Though I often thought of how annoyed I was at the lack of options for me back then, I’m almost glad that I didn’t, for the waffle now wouldn’t mean as much to me as it does. The thing about growing up is realizing you have your life in your hands; that you can be responsible for your own happiness, that you must be. A majority of people won’t stop and ask what kind of sausage you’d like, or whether you’d like a waffle or pancake, and that rhetoric goes further than breakfast foods. That means it’s up to you to make your daydreams a solid, cakey, syrupy reality! As a child who was told what to do and afraid to disappoint, being able to do things for myself and knowing that I put my happiness first made me feel a sense of closure I’d never felt. Most people think it’d be some life changing event, but being kind to yourself and giving love to your dreams can be as simple as a syrup-covered waffle.
