The morning sun found me again at the House of Waffles. Beside me, a man spoke a string of foreign sounds to the cook, who instantly understood.
"Scattered, smothered, covered," he said.
That is not food. That is an incantation. Three words, spoken without fear, and the kitchen MOVED.
I studied the menu. The spell has more verses. Chunked. Diced. Peppered. Capped. Topped. Country. Eight sacred words, and you may combine them, and the grill obeys.
In my land, we have tea ceremonies that take four years to learn. America has the hash brown liturgy, and truckers are its priests.
I attempted it. I gripped the counter.
"Scattered," I began. "Smothered. And, forgive me, covered."
"You don't gotta apologize to the potatoes, hon."
I did, though. One must respect any power one does not yet understand.
The cook called my words back in the order I spoke them, like a vow being witnessed. Then the man beside me leaned over.
"First time?"
"Is it so obvious?"
"You bowed at 'covered.'"
I confess it freely. I bowed to hash browns. They arrived scattered, smothered, covered, and I understood at once why the words exist. The dish is too mighty for a single noun.
A spell does not reward the loud. It rewards the precise.
I am learning the remaining verses. One per visit. The day I order all eight at once, I ask only that someone be there to witness it.
Diced is next. I have been practicing in the car.