c Christmas at the Waffle House
By Cappy Hall Rearick
“There's nothing sadder in this world than to awake Christmas morning and not be a child.” ~ Erma Bombeck
Babe and I had every intention of sleeping in on Christmas morning. Our grown children were in South Carolina with their families, so Santa had no reason to drop down our chimney. We could sleep late and visit with the kids a week or so after the live greens had drooped and tired old Santa had flown back to the North Pole.
I was dreaming about a steam-driven train full of happy people when my two hungry cats plopped down on my stomach. Their breathing sounded eerily like the huff-puff train in my interrupted dream.
I dragged myself to the kitchen pantry in hopes of finding some non-smelly cat food. The day, being a special one, meant that my kitties would dine on turkey ala Fancy Feast instead of generic questionable fish.
After opening the cans, I looked up to find Babe, seated as if in a trance, right in front of the lighted Christmas tree.
“What are you doing, Babe?"
He looked at me as if I had glitter for brains. “Waiting for you to get in here so we can open presents.”
He grinned. I love it when he does that.
When my first cup of Starbucks kicked in, I became aware of Michael Bublé dreaming of a White Christmas. 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. "Can we?"
“What are you, five?” I took another swig of Starbucks. “Okay, let's do this Santa thing, Babe. I can handle it now.”
Later, after all the gifts were opened, we were both hungry for something that didn’t need cooking, so we decided to go out for breakfast.
“Where to,” Babe said as though asking a cruise director about the next port of call.
“Waffle House,” I said without having to think about it.
When we drove up to the second home of every man, woman and child South of the Gnat Line, it was packed. The parking lot was jammed with cars, motorcycles and pickups.
As we arrived, a family of four was leaving, so before their table could be cleaned of leftover waffle crumbs, we plopped down in their abandoned seats.
“Cheese omelet,” I announced to Donna, the server dressed in a red T-shirt with Merry Christmas, Y’all stamped on her bosomy front. “And a quart of coffee.”
Donna, seemingly unconcerned about her missing front tooth, smiled at me and winked at Babe. He ordered one of everything on the menu and winked back at her.
I gazed at the assorted groups gathered in the little house of pecan waffles and enough fat fuel to power us to Uranus and back.
Taking up two tables and hanging off each end, a group of bikers dressed in red leather were eating waffles, hash browns and milk. Milk?
A mom and dad at the table next to ours were trying to keep their five pajama-clad children from killing each other. Dad must have suggested eating breakfast out at the place that stays open 24-7. Mom likely replied, “You had me at eat breakfast out.”
I looked around the diner and noticed an elderly woman wearing a red wig that didn’t fit. She was too thin, her eyes were rimed in deep pink. She ate alone and looked sadder than anyone there. It broke my heart.
Donna refilled our cups, spilled some on the side and then rolled her eyes. Babe winked at me. There was a lot of winking going on that morning. 'Tis the season …
Friends we hadn’t seen for a while were there. We hugged and wished each other Merry Christmas. It had been too long since we visited making me wonder where the time had gone.
My omelet arrived loaded with cheese and animal fat. Babe stuffed himself with eggs, waffles, bacon, sausage, grits and hash browns. I stifled a grin when he requested whole-wheat toast.
Between bites, I became aware of more families, more pajamas and a variety of exhausted parents, evidenced by Dad's blood-shot eyes and Mom's droopy ones. I remembered being that young and searching for missing screws for unassembled toys.
It didn't seem so long ago that instead of cats jumping on my stomach, tiny hands were shaking me and a small voice was whispering to his brother, Is she awake?
Is the Waffle House on Christmas morning now representative of the 21st Century Family? We never ate breakfast outside of home on Christmas when I was a kid. Mama may have fixed waffles, but more likely she toasted slices of Miss Sunbeam, or if we were lucky, added cinnamon and sugar before yelling for us to put down our toys and eat.
Home life is so different today and it's a good thing. 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 thirty pounds she lost at Weight Watchers, I say, “You Go, Girl.”
And when Babe orders every item on the Waffle House menu and manages not to have a coronary, I ask him, “Did you save room for fruitcake?”
Christmas at the Waffle House is our new tradition even though they don't serve fruitcake.
