My mom had just spent two hours and ten minutes driving us to our breakfast. People who aren’t my mom would have made this drive in one and a half hours or less. I knew she wanted to drive so I was prepared in advance for her immutable parade pace on the freeways. I was focused on the plate of French toast I had earned and was going to levitate into my face with all of the enthusiasm of a one year old performing the first birthday cake fist-ear-nose-cheek rub.

This eatery is one of the only signs of life off of this particular freeway in this out of the way, one streetlight, town. It is a family tradition to make this journey every other year or so. The place is pro-shotgun, all God, Don’t Mess With Texas if Texas had a little sister living in the California desert. While we don’t feel the same way, we’ve never had a problem eating there. We go for road trip food, not political or religious reasons. The views of the establishment are clearly posted in various ways but nobody has ever treated us as anything more than hungry people who want to eat their breakfast. We ignore the signs and they seem to ignore us back.

This time was a little different. We were seated in a booth next to an ordinary looking couple with a child. We hadn’t even noticed them until the woman began quizzing the waitress on the sugar content of just about every item on the menu. The waitress, trying to be helpful, answered the best she could and went to ask someone about the items she didn’t know. 

After nearly five minutes of this and a dip onto our side by the waitress to apologize for the delay in taking our order, our sugar inquisitor - and the roadblock to my own sugar consumption - began to lecture the waitress. Loudly. 

“I AM ON THE DANIEL FAST. DO YOU KNOW WHAT THE DANIEL FAST IS?” she shrieked with all of the subtlety of a jet engine strapped to your back. She didn’t wait for an answer. She went on to explain the biblical basis for the fast - Daniel as a prisoner, eating fruits and vegetables, resisting meats and other foods evil kings would typically eat at their evil palaces. She took a breath only after asking our waitress if she had any idea what a palace was. “YOU DO KNOW WHAT A PALACE IS?” our waitress’s eyes clouded with irritation. “Yes,” she said, as she made a note to hide some sugar in whatever this overly loud customer ordered. 

I texted my mom sitting across the booth from me who was looking like she was ready to dive under the table if the loud loony lady made any sudden moves. “I know what a palace is and this sugar avoiding rape whistle is in the way of my palatial French toast!” Mom threw her napkin at my head and kicked me under the table.

Eventually the woman placed an order.  The waitress came to us, apologized for the delay and asked for our order. “I’d like to send a packet of sugar to the booth behind us,” I whispered. Our waitress giggled surreptitiously. I finally got my French toast and we left a large tip. 

When my mom and I got back in the car, I told her she’s not allowed to drive next year because if I drove, we would have missed the crazy lady entirely. “No,” she said. “I’ll just have to slow down next year. I really do drive too fast.”