Kids
Waffle

My son is four, and he plays putting the way some people conduct an orchestra. Big gestures. Total conviction. Occasional disregard for the rules.

It was a spring Saturday, the morning still cool, a breeze pushing petals across the patio at PopStroke Delray Beach. We were on hole 2. Short putt, gentle slope, maybe six feet. He set his feet, wiggled his whole body and swung.

It went in. First try. An ace. He did not celebrate. He simply turned to me and said, very seriously, "I'm hungry now." Champions have their priorities.

So we left the course to the grown-ups, took a patio table and ordered the Kids Waffle. A sweet waffle, squared off and inviting, the way all good waffles are, every little pocket waiting for something. Maple syrup on the side, which he regarded as a personal swimming pool for each bite. And fresh fruit, which I watched him eat in a particular order known only to him.

He dipped. He chewed. He hummed a song I didn't recognize, and when I asked what it was, he said he made it up.

There was syrup on his chin and on the table and, somehow, on the back of his shoe. I wiped none of it. He ran off to the playground, sticky and triumphant, and went down the slide four times before coming back for the last bite. You only get so many mornings like this one.

On the walk out, he asked for the scorecard. He wants to show his grandma the number one.