12
It was a lazy Sunday morning at La Baraque, the woodstove blazing.
Molly had made a pot of strong coffee and returned to bed, where she and Ben were discussing what to make for breakfast.
“I can’t believe it, but I don’t think I’ve ever made you waffles,” said Molly, sitting up suddenly and nearly upsetting Ben’s coffee, which was resting on his chest.
“I’ve had waffles in Brussels, many years ago. But never an American waffle. How is it served?”
“Well, the absolute best way is the way my aunt from Virginia makes them—not sweet, but instead with chicken hash on top. So good, oh my God,” said Molly, flopping back on the bed and moaning. “But I’ve got no chicken leftovers, so that’ll have to wait for another time. I do have some Vermont maple syrup squirreled away, though. Give me a
