Saturday morning, in an unexpected turn of events, Keith offered to take the family to breakfast! Eating out in our family is virtually unheard of, unless it’s a special event or someone is visiting. So we took quick showers and threw on our weekend gear, bundled up the boys against the wintery drizzle, and headed to one of the finer establishments in town, the Waffle Hut.
I’ve been doing my best over the past 3 weeks to eat healthy and control portions, and the Waffle Hut was the antithesis of my efforts. Between the amount of food on the plate, and the amount of grease in the food, I was sick to my stomach literally all day long. But what really stuck out to me was the lady who was serving the people at the bar. She was so typically Waffle Hut, with big teased bangs rising high in front of her little triangle Waffle Hut hat. She had her button-up shirt and tie on, and very long fingernails, and a little gold tooth in front. She was probably in her mid-thirties, and had Cigarette Voice, and a big, loud laugh that made everyone at the bar stop eating their waffles and look up at her and join in. She was like a bartender, chatting up the customers at the bar, serving food and taking tips. Her nametag had a big star on it, and beneath her name was printed "12 Years." Twelve years of Waffle Hut, probably all twelve behind that bar. For a minute, I felt sad for her. I think if I spent twelve years in the kitchen of a Waffle Hut, I would feel sad. But then, after a little more thought, I felt happy for her. Because if she is still there after twelve years, she must really love that job. And she sure looked happy, and she looked comfortable, and that makes all the difference. I’d rather spend 12 years at a Waffle Hut, if I was happy, then a few weeks at a fancy-schmancy job that I hated. Life’s too short to be miserable.
And therein lies the moral of the story. Waffle Hut, your wisdom comes chopped, smothered, and chunked.