One of the upsides to being unemployed is that I got to meet some new friends for breakfast at Honey’s Sit-N-Eat yesterday. I tried to eat there on the weekends several times before, but it’s godawful crowded and I refuse to stand in line for two hours for breakfast. (The food did live up to the hype, but the service was so-so.)
My massage therapist A. wanted me to meet some of his friends: “People you should know,” he told me. “You’re all part of my posse.” (He calls me “dawg.” I call him “dude.”)
One friend was a pranic healer, the other was a vedic healer. “Do you all get into a steel cage to fight it out and see which healing modality wins?” I said. (A. said no, it was all just a different way of healing.)
A. was joking, saying that our table was “a power spot.”
“Yeah, we’re the Philadelphia Sedona,” I said.
Anyway, I had scrambled eggs, one of Honey’s famous latkes, which A. had never seen before – it didn’t look like a latke, it looked like a slab of scrapple – and a homemade biscuit. (There was a pot of homemade blueberry preserves to spread on the biscuit.)
The pranic healer had eggs with his home fries, and although I didn’t taste them, they looked like they might be the best home fries in the world. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that Edgar Cayce said the one hard and fast diet rule that applied to everyone was, don’t eat fried potatoes in any form.
I’ll go back – but only on a weekday.
There are a lot of reasons to ignore Edgar Cayce, but that edict might be the most important one of all. I cook damned good home fries and hash browns.