This was written September 28, 2006

So in an effort to stop being so maudlin, I thought I'd relate a short story that occurred this past weekend when D and I were in St. Louis for a wedding.  To properly set the scene, you have to understand that most Northeasterners affectionately refer to the great Midwest/Plains states as flyover country; a place where the breakfasts are big and the people are even bigger.

On our way to the airport, we had to drop off our car and given the hour, get something to eat.  As one would expect, the area surrounding the airport and rental car return lots was not exactly a culinary paradise.  We opted for the only known quantity in the area:  Denny's.  

While D parked the car, I walked in to get a table.  Upon entering, it was  everything you would expect an airport diner to be.  Loud.  Staff shouting orders.  And the people.  Oh the people.  I realized immediately, more so than any other point during our weekend, that I was not on the East Coast.  Very sturdy, hardworking folk who, had they known a couple of big 'mos had just walked in (and who knows, maybe they did), would have encouraged us to have a personal conversation with Jesus. 

At any rate, we sat down at the counter rather than wait for a table.  We were immediately served coffee and given menus but it then took about 10 minutes after we'd closed our menus before anyone seemed to notice us again.  We weren't in a rush so it didn't matter too much.  Besides, it gave us the opportunity to enjoy the somewhat incongruous vintage French travel posters adorning the walls. 

We ordered thoroughly American breakfasts which, given the wait to place the order, arrived with breathtaking speed.  You know those moments when you're not aware how hungry you are until a plate full of food lands in front of you?  I started shoveling the stuff in with some fairly aggressive knife and fork action before pausing in between bites of ham, to turn to D, and have the following exchange:

Me:  Wow.  This ham is the real deal.

D:  What do you mean?

D starts to get the pouty faces that says his feelings have just been inexcusably wounded.

D:  The ham I make you is the real deal.  I make you all these foods.  You don't like my foods? [Yes, he says "foods"]

I start to panic realizing that having a touching "sweetie" moment in a Denny's is not a good idea.

Me:  Here, have a bite.

I promptly shove a piece of ham in his mouth.  He chews quietly for a moment.

D:  That's good. Really good.

Thumbnail Creative Commons Photo Credit: swong95765