Many years ago my brother, Seth, said something that I have never forgotten.  I may have forgotten where and why he had said it, but I will never forget what he said, “Waffle House is the place to pick up chicks!”  This may or may not be true, but it has always stuck with me.  What did he mean by that?  Can one really pick up chicks at the Waffle House?

Jerry and I had gotten up early to go grab some breakfast on our way to Huntsville International Airport.  We had done a search and had settled on the famous Blue Plate Cafe.  We both had wanted to experience a real down home southern breakfast and Blue Plate Cafe promised that.  We punched the coordinates into Jerry’s phone and we were on our way.

We pulled into the Blue Plate Cafe parking lot only to discover that it was closed.  DUH!  It was Palm Sunday in the Bible belt!  What were we thinking so Jerry said “Lets go to Waffle House!”  At least we knew that they would be open and quick about getting the food out,  because we needed to be at the airport to scoop up some people for my brother’s wedding.

We punched in Waffle House and found one just one exit before the airport.  Stomachs grumbling we were on our way again. Pulled off the highway and did a quick u-turn and we stepped into the Waffle House.  We were created with what only could be a synchronistic moment as Lynyrd Skynyrd came though over the sound system.  Jerry and I looked at each other and just smiled.  Welcome to Alabama we collectively thought to ourselves.

We slid onto the stools at the counter and ordered up our breakfast.  The waitresses were all friendly and the coffee flowed freely.  It was  a comforting to have that grill hopping and our food on the table in a matter of minutes.  This is where so much of America eats.  This is as far from the big city comfort eateries as one could get.  This was the real comfort food!  It was simple.  The food satisfied our souls.

The conversation was deep, as I dug into my cheese omelette and grits.  For those of you not born and raised int he south grits are made with chipped kernels of corn and prepared like a wet rice and seasoned with butter, salt and pepper.  As we gobbled up our food I thought about how hard the waitresses had to hustle for their paychecks.  Jerry wondered out loud to me that following the workings of a Waffle House could make for interesting documentary.  Real people dealing with daily life that only could be seen from the hustle of southern waitresses.

We finished up and left our waitress a nice tip for her hustle.  I really have no idea when I may be back in a Waffle House.  I am still not sure if they are the place to pick up chicks or not.  I do know that the Waffle House will be their waiting for me next time I’m in the American South.

Time has shifted into another realm over the last couple of days.  After the marathon drive from south Florida to Huntsville, Alabama with my brother my concept of time has reverted to a more raw state.

I can’t count the hours.  I don’t feel the minutes.  All I know is that I am surrounded by people that love me.  And some of these people I am meeting for the first time.  It really doesn’t matter.  The love surrounding us has altered my perception of it.

It is beautiful to walk around an unknown neighborhood and just be.  To look at how the Alabamians decorate their yards, paint their houses, and walk down the street.

To watch the colors liquify in the sky as the sun sets over Mastin Lake Road in the foothills of the appalachian mountains.  So beautiful and in all places, Alabama.

Just a taste of the beauty and the love that surrounds us at this moment in our lives.

Peace to all on this shabbat before passover!