Once, I was rebellious. I say once because I don’t consider myself to be much of a rule breaker. But sometimes, you just have to weigh the risks and rewards.
Once, I was rebellious.
I say once because I don’t consider myself to be much of a rule breaker.
But sometimes, you just have to weigh the risks and rewards.
Sophomore year of college, I was responsible for getting the waffle makers taken away for a week or so in the cafeteria, all because I wanted banana waffles.
While sitting in our dorm, a friend and I listened to the song “Banana Pancakes,” by Jack Johnson, which sparked a craving for the food and wished the cafeteria served them. Being the creative individuals we are, we started thinking of alternatives.
We decided on waffles.
Ok, sure, there was a sign next to the waffle irons that says you aren’t allowed to put anything except waffle mix in them. But what harm could it really do?
So, every breakfast, we started making banana waffles. They were really easy to make and in 2 minutes, you have a fluffy, warm, balanced breakfast.
Then we ran into some trouble.
While another friend of ours was making the banana waffles (what can I say, our brilliant idea caught on), a particularly terrifying cafeteria worker came around the corner and caught him in the act. After giving him a lecture, she sent him on his way with his waffle, making him promise that he would never do it again.
We watched the scene unfold from a safe distance, wide eyed and shoving banana waffles into our mouths, plotting our next move. Was this the end of the single best idea we had ever had?
After much deliberation, we decided that no, this was not the end; we just had to be sneakier.
We really didn’t think that we were doing any harm. After the waffles were fully cooked, they came out of the iron cleanly, leaving no trace of banana whatsoever.
Another month passed, and we were still enjoying our waffles.
Then, it happened.
We were going along our breakfast business as usual. Right as I was pouring my mix in, that same woman rounded the corner and I knew I was busted.
Here’s what I thought would happen: I would get a lecture and then be sent on my way with my delicious waffle and we would just have to find an even sneakier alternative.
Here’s what actually happened: the cafeteria worker yelled at me, asked if I could read. Not long after, two other workers joined the one who was currently unplugging the sticky irons. They then dramatically placed the irons on a cart and wheeled them away to the back, performing CPR until they could get them into surgery.
I wish I could say there was a moral to this story, but I really just miss those banana waffles.