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The All-American
It was a cold, blustery January morning. Icicles draped the parking porte-cochère like holiday lights, frozen mid-melt. A rare recent southern winter storm left lacy ice patches on the dormant lawn. My husband, Richard, and I were picking up his dad, Roger, at his independent living senior apartment building. We were taking him to Waffle House for brunch. Not in my playbook for fine dining, however, it was Roger’s favorite. And what did he always order? The All-American Breakfast — two eggs, hashed browns, meat of choice, toast, and waffles. Enough for at least a day’s worth of food coma. He grinned when he saw us. Freshly shaved and showered,…
