O -P -E -N

On this fine Monday morning, #1 Daughter and I arise from our slumber, lumber our way downstairs, and contrive to do school. From the pair of comfy chairs in front of the woodstove , we spy the village square just up the hill. The view is very familiar.

Cars are making their morning commute, wet tires slogging through the slush and throwing a fair share of dirty snow into my yard. All is gray; the sky rains down frozen drops of something the weatherman calls "a wintery mix" which paints everything with a dreary haze.

Through the drab air, a spot of color and movement makes itself known. The Hometown Diner blinks companionably O -P- E -N. OPEN. O -P -E N. OPEN. Most mornings, most afternoons, and most evenings, a cheery red electric sign signals that cheap, greasy, and hot food is to be had only a few strides away.

We cave, #1 Daughter and I. Within mere minutes, French toast for $2.50 and a cup of something steaming which masquerades as coffee is ours. A wake-me-up. A morning motivator. A strangely satisfying plate of carbs & sugar which makes our brain cells stand at attention. It gives us the impetus to do what's got to be done.

Hometown Diner's French Toast. The Breakfast of Champions.