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Nostalgia December 2013

Puttin' on the Gritz

Christmas at the Waffle House

By Cappy Hall Rearick

I don't remember ever having breakfast outside of our home on Christmas while I was growing up. Mama may have fixed waffles, but chances are she simply popped Miss Sunbeam bread in the toaster, or if we were lucky she made cinnamon toast before yelling for us to put down our toys and come to the table.

"There's nothing sadder in this world than to awake Christmas morning and not be a child."
 ~ Erma Bombeck

We intended to sleep in on Christmas. Our grown kids were in South Carolina with their kids, so Santa had no need to drop by our house. Babe and I planned to visit with family after the live greens had wilted and Santa had flown back to the North Pole.

I had been dreaming about a steam-driven train when my two hungry cats jumped on my stomach. Their breathing sounded eerily like the huff-puff train in my interrupted dream.

I dragged myself into the kitchen to open a can of something not smelly. The day, being special, meant they dined on Fancy Feast turkey instead of Winn-Dixie's mixed fish parts.

I looked up from the cans to find Babe sitting by the tree as if in a trance.

"What are you doing," I asked.

He looked at me as though I had glitter for brains. "Waiting to open presents." He grinned.

My Starbucks kicked in. I heard Bing Crosby crooning Christmas tunes so I sat down next to Babe, leaned over and kissed him smack on his smackers. He grinned again. "Can we open ‘em now," he asked.

"What are you, five?" I took two more Starbucks swigs. "Okay, do your Santa thing, Babe. I can handle it."    

Later, hungry for something I didn't have to cook, we opted to go out for breakfast.

"Where to," Babe asked as though I were the tour director.

"Waffle House," I suggested.

When we drove up to the diner, second home to every man, woman and child south of the Gnat Line –  it was packed. The parking lot was jammed with cars, motorcycles and pickups. A family of four left as we arrived, so before it was cleaned of leftover waffle crumbs, we plopped down at the recently vacated table.

"Cheese omelet," I announced to our server, Donna, dressed in a red T-shirt with Merry Christmas, Y'all stamped on her bosomy front. "And a ton of coffee."

Donna, unconcerned about her missing front tooth, smiled at me and winked at Babe. He ordered one of everything on the menu.

I gazed at the assorted groups gathered at tables in the little house of pecan waffles and enough fat fuel power to hurdle us all into another galaxy.

Taking up two tables and hanging off the end, a group of bikers dressed in red leather ate waffles, hash browns and milk. Milk?

A mom and dad at the table next to ours tried to keep their five pajama-clad children from killing each other. I imagined Dad saying, "Let's eat breakfast out at the place that stays open 24-7." I imagined Mom replying, "You had me at ‘eat breakfast out.’"

I noticed an elderly woman wearing a red wig that didn't fit. She was too thin and her eyes were rimed in deep pink. She ate alone and looked sadder than anyone in the place. It broke my heart.

Donna refilled our cups, spilled some on the side and then rolled her eyes. "One of dem days."

Babe winked at me. A whole lot of winking seemed to be going on at our table.

Friends we hadn't seen in a while stopped by our table. Hugs and holiday wishes were given out and it felt good. It had been too long since we visited, and I wondered where the time had gone.

My omelet arrived loaded with cheese and animal fat. Yum! Babe stuffed himself with eggs, waffles, bacon, sausage, grits and hash browns. He'd requested whole-wheat toast, his one nod to health food.

Looking around again, I was aware of more families, more pajamas and more exhausted parents.

Families that eat at the Waffle House on Christmas morning could be the new 21st century America. I don't remember ever having breakfast outside of our home on Christmas while I was growing up. Mama may have fixed waffles, but chances are she simply popped Miss Sunbeam bread in the toaster, or if we were lucky she made cinnamon toast before yelling for us to put down our toys and come to the table.

Home life is not like that these days. I applaud the difference.

When I see a family at the Waffle House with five kids still clad in pajamas, I smile. When Donna proudly wears her Merry Christmas, Y'all T-shirt that shows off the 30 pounds she's lost, I say, "You go, girl."

And when Babe eats every item on the Waffle House menu and manages not to have a coronary, I ask, "Got room for fruitcake?"

 

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