I read diner menus like they are juicy novels--I just can’t seem to put them down. I love looking at a diner’s offerings: salisbury steak with sliced mushroom gravy on a bed of creamy mashed potatoes; thick malted milk shakes brought out in frosted metal shakers; and huge sundaes with spherical mountains of pink ice cream dribbling with Hershey’s chocolate syrup and a perfectly-coiffed whipped cream "do." A diner helps to remind me of why I am alive--to eat.
On my recent diner trip, I decided to bet it all, and order the colossal breakfast extravaganza, including: two eggs over-easy, two crispy fried bacon strips, two meaty sausage links, one slice of honey-baked ham, half a plate of fried hash brown potatoes, and three hot cakes.
When my order arrived on two heavy beige platters, I felt as reminiscent as Celine Dion once sang, "It’s all coming back to me now."
The first thing I did was dust the entire landscape of my plate with black pepper and empty the tall glass Heinz ketchup bottle onto the perimeter of my potatoes. After pouring the small jug of sticky maple syrup on top of my pancakes and smearing the fist-sized mound of butter in between the open crevices, I wolfed down the meal in front of me. After dinner, I gently patted my stomach. I was a self-satisfied glutton.
However, my trip to the diner did not end when I cleaned off my plate and left my place in the vinyl booth. Later that night, I tossed and turned in my bed, and my burning and bloated stomach growled and hissed at me. It was then that I remembered why in college I ate at the diner to stay awake. As I sat up in my bed, the memorable words once wisely sung by Celine Dion resonated in my head again, "It’s all coming back to me now."