Pretty tough to prepare your own breakfast at 4 a.m. when you're 600 miles away from home and enroute to a duck blind. While I think the writer's "comparison" of a Waffle House to a Christian church and heaven is silly, it is a small comfort that Waffle Houses are usually a constant, regardless of their location. And, at least in the case of those in the Deep South, they know how to cook decent coffee and grits. Not great, but decent.
When I do drive 600 miles, to hunt or, fish, give or take, I’m pretty much self contained, as there hasn’t been a Waffle House for 500 of those miles. I have thermoses of soup, charcoal, a grille, and plenty of coolers in the back of the truck. Hanging around with Lloyd in Lake of the Woods county, he does know of a few restaurants, and if I clean myself up a bit, and promise to resist humping any legs, he will bring me along on an evening.
Otherwise, I am Waffle House, in the tin shed at Walleye Retreat.
Best,
Ted
