Never Ask Permission

Excerpt from Chapter 1

     Glaring at me, his face turned beet red. His hand came up and slammed me hard against the kitchen wall.  Stunned, I stood there and watched while he grabbed his hat and stomped down the stairs. Slamming the door as he went out, he started "the bomb" and squealed the tires as he flew down the deserted street.

     I didn't think it was that much of a big deal. It was our first fight, on a Sunday morning in 1955. We had been in our apartment three weeks.

     "Let's make waffles for breakfast," Barley had suggested. By saying 'lets', I knew he meant me.

     "Okay," I agreed. "It'll give us a chance to break in the waffle iron that we got at the wedding." Before the modern 'no stick' coating, one had to "condition" a new waffle iron by baking in a coat of oil, which meant that the first few waffles would stick and had to be thrown away unless you wanted to eat a pile of crumbs after scraping it off the grid. I took the appliance out of its box and sponged it off with a damp cloth. Plugging it into the outlet by the sink, I mixed up a batch of batter and greased the grid with lard. When it was hot I spooned in the first batter. The waffle stuck. They all stuck. Not one came out that we could eat. I mixed up more batter. They continued to stick.

     "Let's forget it and I'll cook some eggs," I said in desperation. Barley protested.

     "No, Sidney! We're going to have waffles. I'll cook 'em." Taking the spoon from my hand, he grabbed the bowl off the countertop and filled the four squares with batter. Five minutes later he was scraping the crusty mess with a knife. He didn't have any better luck than I'd had, but he wouldn't give up on that waffle iron.

     "Forget it. I'll cook some eggs," I said again.

     "No! We're having waffles!" he stubbornly retorted.

     Finally, I took the bowl of batter and stuck it under the water faucet so he couldn't make any more. That's when he had hit me.

     So he'd had a temper tantrum and drove off. Calmly, I made myself some toast and cleaned up the tiny kitchen, wondering what this guy I had married, was actually like.