“Janice, I cannot believe you can cook all this good food and still have time to chew the fat. How is that, anyway?” Pastor Theodore finished the last of his food, his third plate. Every Saturday morning, he came into the diner and ate. Always the same food. Bacon. Pancakes. Sausage. Crispy brown toast. Hash browns. And lots of maple syrup. Janice made sure to bring him his own small bottle. She knew he’d finish over half of it before he waddled out the door. Once in a while, Pastor Theodore would order eggs. But not today. 

“Because I got other people to cook for me. I don’t do it all myself. That’d be plum crazy, Pastor!” She refilled his coffee cup. One time, Janice counted how many refills of milk, coffee, and water Pastor Theodore drank: six of each. It was enough to make her swear off the breakfast foods altogether.

Janice bought the land from Jack Frankle, Kathy’s father. Jack invested in the township of Spud, hoping the land would be passed down through the family. All that changed after his wife Emily and his daughter Doris died in a car accident a few months earlier. Kathy was his only surviving child and was still in high school. Jack was a great mechanic, but the small town couldn’t support the two of them and cover the cost of the funerals. Selling the land was a last-ditch effort to keep them out of debt. Jack got the short end of the stick, but Janice? She got the land and built the diner.

“Tony?” Janice shouted to the kitchen. A thick man with jet-black hair swept to one side and stuck to the side of his head pushed his way out the swinging door.

“Yeah? I got food on the griddle, Janey. Whatcha need?” Tony wiped the sweat from his forehead.

“I hope youns gonna wash them grubby suckers before goin’ back to the griddle!”

“Well, yeah,” Tony brushed his hair back with his fingers. “I always wash my hands, Janey.”

“How many times I told ya to stop callin’ me that, anyways?” Reaching into her apron, Janice pulled out a cigarette, lighting it with the matches stuck in an ashtray on the bar. Blowing the smoke overhead, she shook her head.

Tony smirked. “Half a dozen, at least.” He winked at her. “Is that all you need? To comment on my clean hands?” He held up both hands. They were bright pink, similar to the shade of the pink lemonade Janice would make during the spring and summer months. All cooks’ hands looked like Tony’s from the constant handwashing and scrubbing of pots and pans. 

“No, sir. We got,” she stopped long enough to count the patrons at the six tables waiting for their food. Janice had a way of keeping people from thinking about how long the wait was for their food. If not for that, Tony would’ve lasted as long as he did. As it was, Janice considered firing him a few weeks ago. Six tables. Twenty-three folks waiting for bacon, eggs, and pancakes. It was not that hard to cook that much food, but Tony? He was struggling to make it happen. At least consistently. “Youns got twenty-plus people waitin’ on food. How long ‘till it comes out?”

Tony’s laugh was Italian, as far as anyone in Spud was concerned. He wasn’t really Italian. His mother and father were European immigrants, but he didn’t know which part. Not that he cared. He played up the Italian angle as often as possible. If she had wagered a guess, Janice thought he was connected to some Mafia bad guys. But, honestly, she couldn’t care less. As long as Tony could cook, get out the food, and keep the kitchen clean? She was happy. “’bout two minutes, give or take,” Tony answered, rocking his hand left and right. Tony always talked with his hands, something he thought all Italians did. So he did it, too, just to keep up appearances.

Janice took two more drags from her unfiltered Chesterfield, crushed it in the ashtray, and grabbed the carafe of regular caffeinated coffee. Then, thinking twice about doing double the work, grabbed the decaf, just in case one of the church ladies didn’t want to be up half the night, a line she often heard Saturday morning. It was Saturday, for cryin’ out loud! Not Sunday. But these ladies, in their early fifties, were sticklers about their decaf. Janice knew they couldn’t taste the difference, but she often heard them complain about the flavor. Most of the time, the decaf went to waste, having sat on the burner for more than four hours. Janice made a point of changing it every three hours, whether or not it needed it. Cost of doing business, she figured.

“Who needs more coffee?” Janice spoke loud enough to be heard but not shouting. She didn’t shout except in the kitchen at Tony. Several hands shot up, holding their mugs above their heads. Janice smiled, “Alright, y’all. One at a time. I only got two hands!” If there was one thing Janice could do well, it was pour coffee. It didn’t matter if you needed a top-off or a complete refill; Janice did either without spilling a drop.

“Janice, is that decaf?” Bernice scowled at her. “I can only drink decaf; otherwise, I’ll be up half the night and won’t make it to Pastor Theodore’s sermon tomorrow. And I can tell. It’s gonna be a good one.” Janice smiled her best smile. “Yes, ma’am, this here,” she held the carafe with the orange top up, “Ms. Bernice is for sure decaf.” She leaned in close, holding both carafes away from her body, and whispered, “Made it myself a few minutes’ fore youns arrived. Knew you’d be wantin’ it.” She winked at Bernice, cringing inside. Janice knew her profits depended on niceties, so she did it. Even when she didn’t want to. “There ya go. Nice and hot. Just like you like it,” Janice smiled.

Tony came out of the kitchen, a massive tray holding several plates of food, some with pancakes, others with hashbrowns and toast. “Here we go, folks. Nice and hot!” Steam rose from every plate, Janice putting both carafes down on the nearest empty table. She knew each table, what each person ordered, and how long they had been waiting. That’s why she was known in Spud and Spiner for being the best diner in sixty miles. Her attention to her guests didn’t go unnoticed. This was a time in America when people generously rewarded hard work and attentiveness because the working class could afford to do so.

Janice dealt plates like a Las Vegas blackjack dealer, fast and efficient. She was so quick about setting each plate in front of her patrons that the food had no chance to cool off. Steam still rose from each plate after serving all twenty-six people. Unlike other food service establishments with as many guests, no plates were moved from their proper place. The number of guests was not overwhelming for her. Janice remembered each and every one.

Smiling, she watched Bernice, Candice, and Gertrude take small bites of their pancakes and eggs. They rarely ordered ham or sausage. Occasionally, they ordered bacon, but it wasn’t their usual fare. Bernice buttered her ‘hotcakes’ and drizzled maple syrup on them. She didn’t like many sweet things, including syrup, but she indulged on Saturdays. Candice and Gertrude weren’t so stingy about the syrup. Candice didn’t eat her eggs but ordered them like clockwork each Saturday. Gertrude wasn’t picky and ate whatever her gal pals didn’t, waiting patiently like a dog for scraps from the table.

Looking over the other folks eating, Janice watched the twins, Mike and Mark, gobbling their pancakes with little regard for anything else. Both boys were seven years old. The diner’s owner couldn’t tell them apart. She wondered if her parents, Roger and Veronica, struggled with that, too. The twins were precisely what you think of when you say blonde hair, blue-eyed, white teeth kiddos. No way around it; Roger and Veronica were lucky parents. Roger worked for a farm twenty miles from Spud, and Veronica was a stay-at-home mom before there was a term for it. She stayed home with the boys, waiting for them to get off the bus every weekday. Today, the boys wore denim blue overalls over white t-shirts, which was the norm for boys in the mid-1960s. Not getting out of the house much, Veronica wore a lovely pale yellow sundress, even though it wasn’t quite warm enough yet to wear it. The couple didn’t have much money, most of it going into adding to their home and creating additional space for their next child. Veronica found out last month that she was pregnant. Again. Even though she was a few weeks along, she touched her tummy like she was six months pregnant. Roger wore overalls, like the boys, a white t-shirt under a red flannel shirt. His cowboy boots had seen better days. Thankfully, neither boot had holes. Roger was the only one in his family who didn’t smoke. He hated that Daddy smoked a pipe, and his two older brothers, Doug and Craig, picked up cigarettes during the Korean War. Doug also chewed tobacco like his Uncle Conrad, Dad’s younger brother. It was bad enough that their clothes smelled like cigarettes, but Doug? Doug stunk like his chaw.

“You boys like my pancakes?” Janice asked the boys. Mike smiled, but Mark answered, mouth full of pancakes.

“No, sir!” Veronica shouted. “We DO NOT talk with food in our mouth. Do I make myself clear?”

Both boys nodded.

“Now, Mark, what did you want to tell Ms. Janice?”

“Yes, ma’am. The pancakes are tasty! Thank you, Ms. Janice.”

“Yes, Ms. Janice,” Mike piped in, “thank you.”

“Well, aren’t you the sweetest boys! Ms. Veronica, you is raisin’ them boys right nice like. Keep up the good work.”

Veronica beamed, patting her tummy.

“Are you?” Janice pointed to her tummy. Veronica smiled, shaking her head, her eyes welling with tears.

“Mhmm. Found out two days ago.”

“You ready for another one, Roger?”

Roger smiled and, after grabbing Veronica’s hand, squeezed it tight. “If this one,” he pointed at her tummy, “looks like those,” he thumbed the boys, “then count me in for sure!”

“Well, congrats to you both. Tell you what,” Janice pulled out their ticket and ripped it into four equal pieces. “Y’all need your money for that their baby. So. I got breakfast for y’all today.”

“Oh, we got money to pay for that,” Roger said, protesting and holding out a wad of money. “You needn’t do all that, Ms. Janice.”

“Nonsense!” Janice said. “It’s my treat! Consider it an early gift for the little one, even though he or she won’t be done cookin’ for several more months.” Janice winked at Veronica. “’kay. I got get back to work. You kids have a great Saturday, ya hear?”

“Thank you, Ms. Janice,” both boys said in unison.

“You are very welcome, boys. You two,” Janice said, pointing at the couple, “let me know when the baby comes. I’m a decent enough babysitter,” she thumbed back to the kitchen. “I have a couple of babies back there, and I need to watch them. Have a blessed Saturday.”

“Thank you, Ms. Janice,” Roger said.

Veronica stood up, eyes still full of tears, and hugged the owner tightly. “Thank you,” Veronica said, kissing her cheek. “We won’t forget this, Ms. Janice.”

Janice hugged her back. “Y’all take care.”

The boys jumped up, hands still sticky with syrup, waving at Ms. Janice, following Roger out the door. Roger waved before the boys took off into the parking lot, heading straight for their station wagon. It was a brown, rust-colored station wagon made by a company Janice wasn’t familiar with, not that it mattered. She didn’t care for cars much besides the Chevy that carted her to the diner daily.