Sitting at the Airport Diner in Bohemia, New York with Chris — he who makes the big bucks, and Jesse, he who is the pastor (and to quote his grandfather, “Where did he get that from?”) — waiting for their mother, my sister, Sharice, I think it is, to be released from the hospital. It’s 8:30 a.m. and she’s not schedule to be released until 11 a.m., but we figure, even if it’s not until after noon, we can always slide into lunch. There also happens to be an outlet bakery nearby at which we might have stopped, so we’re probably not going to starve anytime soon.
(Above, yes, is a Black and White cookie astride a donut and intimately suspended in thick cream. I have rented an apartment close by.)
We order — and let me say right here, anyone who chooses Home Fries instead of French Fries, well, I don’t want to know you — when the phone rings.
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