Profile Rough Draft

“Oh, look! We can have a swim after breakfast.” This, the observation and half-serious suggestion of Leslie, my friend and the conspirator of this surreal adventure. She is referring to the pool of gray-green, murky water occupying the entirety of the gravel parking lot behind the one-story, rusted brown wood paneled building. It appears to be as naturally formed as the Dead Sea, if only a little less awe-inspiring. So large in fact, is this holy sea that it has its own gentle tide and looked to reach a depth of several feet at its center. It appears also to have existed eternally in this location—the cool breeze blowing over the waters and the luminous reflection of the early morning sun upon the surface such a sacrosanct presence that the proprietors and patrons did not consider it an inconvenience but rather a gift from the divine bestowed on this diner as reward for the deed of serving sausage gravy to the weak and weary. The pool was testimony of its righteousness.

For me, the appeal of country biscuits and a live bluegrass band was instant. Having to arrive at the diner at 9 a.m. was not. A Saturday meal schedule, for me, ideally goes like this: breakfast—consisting of a cup (or 7) of coffee and something hearty (eggs, toast, potatoes shaved and fried)—between 11 and 1, when sane people begin the day. Lunch is simple—a turkey sandwich, or an orange, some cashews—something easily prepared after a 4 hour post-breakfast nap. Dinner is not so much a meal but a causal grazing—a few saltines, left-over cake, cereal straight from the box—a hodge-podge of flavors and ingredients that necessitate another nap afterward; this siesta leading into a full night’s sleep by 10:30. A 9 a.m. breakfast completely disrupts this otherwise natural schedule.