Sunday, March 14, 2010

Home on the range

Pulled into Indianapolis, spotted a sign:

Waffle House

Well shucky dern and slop the pigs.   My Okie twang - debilitated by a decade spent north of Chicago - asserted itself and I was home.

Not that I've had many meals there, in the past.  And for sure wild horses could not drag me in now.  About the only thing they could serve that I'd want is oatmeal.  And you know the oatmeal in a Waffle House is suffused with bacon grease and enough fat and gunk to knock a horse over.[1]

Still - everywhere I've lived in the States from 1985 right up to 2002 had these things everywhere.  WAFFLE HOUSE for years and years was background noise for my environment.

[1] Also ... you could not always get a waffle in a Waffle House.  Famously - supposedly - the waffle iron in the WAFFLE HOUSE in Garner, North Carolina was broken and had been for years.

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