Brian’s fitness journal after a brain stroke
This morning, my wife asked me to make waffles. She had been drawing pancakes and suddenly decided she wanted to eat something fluffy. I, being a reasonable adult with access to a waffle maker, I accepted the mission.
So I woke up earlier than usual—early enough to sneak into the morning before my wife completed her full non-working-day routine. On her days off, she transforms into a productivity machine. One of her regular Sunday rituals is sorting ingredients for the entire upcoming week.
She plans a full weekly menu and pre-packs the ingredients into labeled bags. Monday’s bag equals Monday’s meal. It’s brilliant. It reduces waste, prevents impulse grocery shopping, and makes cooking so easy that even I rarely mess it up. The only problem? This operation completely occupies our very small kitchen.
So I waited.
Patiently.
Hungrily.
Strategically.
Once she completed her meal-kit assembly line and stepped away from the counter, I made my move and claimed the kitchen.
Our waffle maker is nearly two decades old and still performs beautifully, like a seasoned breakfast veteran. When we first moved to Tennessee, we made waffles almost every Sunday—until we realized that frequent waffles come with frequent weight gain. Since then, waffles have become a rare and highly celebrated event.
Today was one of those special days.
I sliced up some strawberries that were right at the edge of their peak deliciousness and made us two waffles each. Unfortunately, I had wildly miscalculated the strawberry-to-waffle ratio. Just as disaster loomed, my wife calmly produced a jar of strawberry jam she had made last spring—homemade, of course.
She’s created three varieties of strawberry jam in the past, including a spicy version. Sadly, I had already devoured all the spicy ones during the summer. What remained was the classic strawberry—and it saved breakfast.
After waffles and our weekly “fancy” coffee, the day drifted peacefully until lunchtime. As is now tradition, I offered to make my wife an omelet. She accepted immediately and requested two eggs instead of the usual one.
She’s been working hard on her strength training and trying to keep her protein intake high to protect her muscle mass. I took this as both a nutritional assignment and an honor.
It was one of those rare days with waffles, homemade jam, careful routines, and quiet teamwork in a small kitchen. Nothing dramatic. Nothing rushed.
Just a very pleasant Sunday.