My grandmother’s jaffle iron weighs about 2kg. It was made (forged might be a better term) in the 1950s, possibly by some sort of blacksmith. The wooden handles have been buffed smooth by generations of jaffle-making hands. It’s the one thing in my kitchen I’ll never throw away.
It’s also circular. None of your newfangled square jaffles here, thank you very much. Over the years it’s built up a lovely patina of scorch marks, scratches and unidentifiable grunge – the ghosts of toasties past. Bread emerges UFO-shaped, covered in golden, concentric crop circles. The fillings inside reach the approximate temperature of the sun, guaranteed to sizzle tastebuds at 50 paces.
