Breakfast can save the world.

 

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I sit at the apex of the boomerang shaped counter. The formica top well-worn from years of fidgeting coffee cups in the hand of patrons. Two heads bobble in the rectangular window across from me. The heads dance with a synchronized rhythm.

The hidden torsos, limbs, and hands create, build, and produce with a second nature muscle memory; two eggs, easy, up, over hard, bacon, crispy, burnt.

The atypical waitress’ tattooed hand hurriedly scribbles the order on the ticket. The ticket’s destination is a  carrousel that lazily hangs in the rectangular widow.  With a movement sharp and heavy she clips the ticket, seeming satisfied to give the bobbing heads something to do.

Suddenly an arm and hand appears, plucking the ticket and disturbing the balance of the carrousel. Random words, like an unfamiliar language, echo from the rectangle window. Suddenly smells and sounds tingle, tantalize, and tease the senses. Whipping, clanging, sizzling, the smell of pork belly.

Outside, drizzle and thick air produce a gloomy morning in Abilene, Texas, inside dry and comfortable accepting and welcoming.

The Dixie Pig Cafe shows its’ age with a thick build up of grease and gunk. A protective film that lets dust slide off, disinfects, and in the right light produces a great shimmer and shine. The gleam and glitter that epitomizes an All- American cafe.

Around the perimeter of the cafe, booths sporting vintage  vinyl as smooth and satisfying as any silk allows for an easy and satisfying slide into the embrace of the booth.

Booths, the couches of restaurants.

This like many other breakfast mainstays across America plays host to a variety of individuals every morning. The patrons’ diversity reads like a Dr. Seuss book; some tall, some small, some happy, some sad, some homely, some hot, some rich, some not.

I sit in this hodgepodge of heredity awaiting what we all came for. What we all can agree on. Breakfast.

The framed heads bob and sway, creating, build, and producing. I eagerly sit while the waitress moves to and fro, like a shark, seeming to stay in constant motion in the moat between me and the window.

People enter, people leave. Some exchange pleasantries, others not. Egos, attitudes, and prejudices are  check at the door. There is not room for that while we break breakfast bread. Aka Toast.

Soon the bobbing head’s hand appears. Gingerly, with light pressure, using only a thumb and two fingers presents the creation to the window.  Once the plate is properly seated, the hand rings a bell and the head produces more unfamiliar sounds.

The waitress’ heavy and sharp movements deliver the plate. The perfect plate, the plate known as breakfast.

Breakfast unlike lunch and dinner, is a time we can all get along.

There is not hate with a hash-browns, or ego with eggs. No pompous with the pancakes or gripes with the grits. There is sincerity with the service and syrup and love with the lox.

Breakfast is patient, breakfast is kind.

It does not envy, it does not boast.

It does not dishonor others.

Breakfast never fails.

Too bad breakfast is not served all day everywhere.

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