My man, The Judge, dressed in his Sunday best today, all preacher-like and sober, and shaved close. We knew we had to try and get Dottie across town to the superstore, so it was a ride full of prayer. She made it, hiccups and all.
Last night for dinner, we ate what was in the house, which wasn't much - chips, salsa, a leftover half-a sandwich. Not a nutritious meal. Needless to say, we were starved. After we reached the land of the discount store, we pulled over into the Waffle House.
If you live in the South, you know the Waffle House. Heck, I suppose if you've traveled through the South you know it, but there's just something so wonderful about having one about 10 miles from you at all times, at the busy intersections in town, near the airports, always serving up their 24-hour service and sweet flattop grill action. They're even open on Thanksgiving and Christmas.
We walked into a surprisingly quiet Waffle House and made short order of the menu. I asked for a patty melt, Judge, an All-Star breakfast.
Have I mentioned how amazing the hashbrowns are? We found out not too long ago that they soak the potatoes overnight, already shredded, to get them that crispy and to cook that fast. I order them scattered and covered, and of course, when they arrive, I add a little ketchup.
The patty melt was right on, and we inhaled the contents of our plates, and both ended it with a piece of toast with jelly. Ah.
Thanks, Waffle House.