I’ve never considered myself to be good at improv, and an incident this morning did nothing to change that opinion.
I was preparing The Squirrelly’s breakfast this morning, and I decided to give him a choice of entree. “Do you want oatmeal or a waffle with jam?” I asked.
“Waffle with jam!” he said enthusiastically.
“Coming right up,” I replied. I retrieved a frozen waffle from the freezer and popped it into the toaster.
Three seconds passed before The Squirrelly got impatient. “Waaaafle!” he whined insistently.
“I’m cooking your waffle!” I said. “Just hold your horses. Waffles don’t –”
I was going to say “waffles don’t grow on trees,” but that seemed inappropriate. After all, my point weren’t that waffles were hard to come by, but that they require a minute or two of preparation. So I abruptly switched metaphors in midstream. “Waffles don’t, um, come out of my butt, you know.”
Sigmund Freud wrote on the subject extensively in the early 20th century and the same holds true today: it is a sobering moment in every boy’s life when he learns that waffles do not come from his father’s butt.