Potatoes, A Shoehorn Saga
Indicative of my core nature as a non mingling social retard the waitresses at the Virginia diner don't, after 7 years, even know my name. Or if they do they don't call me by it. They are very nice and welcoming to me, like you would be to an old friend with whom you have nothing in common. After a certain point, if you don't get someone's name, you can't really go asking for it. That point would certainly fall before the 7 year mark. Been keeping busy? the one waitress asked me. If I were to suggest that depends on how you define busy it would only be the long version of just saying no. She saw me struggling with that one a little bit and said, been to New Orleans? I said no I had not (not any more recently than September) but hesitantly admitted I had been to the Middle East. That fell flat, like a pancake. We have blueberry pancakes the waitress said after the three beat. I often in the past would go for the pancake breakfast but not today. I'll just have the eggs and bacon and...homefries? the waitress filled in for me. Yes, that one. It has a name but I cannot remember it. It might be the farm breakfast. I have been away so long this time I had even forgotten how bad the homefries are. They do many things well at the diner but it honestly baffles me how consistently and uniquely bad the potatoes are. I hate to end on a bad note so I'll just resort to the old standard one word ending that in my experience always leaves them rolling in the isles. Shoehorn.
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