Morning at the fair arrived before the kettles. A small crowd stood by the waffle stall, not quite in a rush, watching the iron the way people watch a kettle that has nearly made up its mind.
The vendor kept a folded napkin over the sugar shaker. We asked at the kiosk, and a man with a paper cup said the batter likes a hello first. She lifted the lid a finger's width, waited, and only when the pale square inside seemed to settle did the iron click shut. One waffle. One grid. Then the sugar was allowed to come forward.
A note in the stall's thanks book, written in a careful loop: Please do not tap. The square on the left was still thinking.
By the next morning the same three people were back, holding their plates a little lower, as if not to startle breakfast.