Monsoon  Seattle

www.monsoonrestaurants.com

Sundays in the Steinman were synonymous with waffles. Like churchgoers, our brunch was a weekly tradition, except instead of God, we believed in the all-mighty power of Bisquick. Though our family was the size of a basketball squad, we ate enough for a football team, packing in carbs like we were prepping for the big game. Dad being practical, he'd insist we make a double batch for leftovers. The uneaten waffles would get piled on a plate to cool, yet they never made it past 3pm. Whenever anyone would pass through the kitchen, they'd tear off a quarter, snacking on them as if they were potato chips.