Well, it’s true. There were raisins in my toast.
I was at Waffle House with my kids because they were being grumpy and …teenish and I was lazy and looking for an excuse to get out of the house and avoid the sequel outline looming over my keyboard-cramped hands.
Most Americans have been to a Waffle House, but if you haven’t, the experience is something everyone needs (if only once). It is a tiny restaurant that seats a limited number of customers. Most surfaces are greasy and the waitresses shout the orders in mystical code to the grill chef, who by some miracle or supreme skill, always seems to get the order correct.
On this particular day, the pre-teen and teen angst of my kids was getting on my nerves. I have a high tolerance for angst, which is good in a YA writer, but my grouchiness was obvious to even the most oblivious, including the waitress, who was sure the biddy sitting at the counter with the 3 surly kids was going to stiff her on the tip. I guzzled caffeine and focused on suppressing the desire to push my kids off of their tall counter stools like dominos, which would have been amusing had it been a simple Benny Hill type affair in which nobody got hurt.
Out of the blue, the quiet of the cafe was broken by a 50’s doo wop kind of song. A typical song similar to what you’ve heard hundreds of times came cranking out of the jukebox right behind me.
Wait a minute…
They were singing about raisins…”Raisins in my toast…”
“No way!” one of my angsters shouted.
“No. They’re not…”
“Oh. My. Gosh. They are singing about raisin toast!” The third one chimed.
None of us could believe there was actually a song playing about the toast at Waffle House. When I had successfully swallowed so that the coffee didn’t spew out of my nose onto my own raisin toast, I got up and checked out the song selection on the jukebox. Sure enough, there was a whole flip page of Waffle Hits. I kid you not.
By the time the monumental import (not) of all of this hit us, we were swaying at the counter, the Lindsey Quartet, belting out a rousing round of “There are Raisins in my Toast” along with the jukebox, causing everyone else in the joint to laugh along with us.
Mood about-face. No angsty teens, no grouchy writer mom, no surly waitress. Happy folks all singing about raisin toast. It’s the little things, I tell you. The levity lasted the rest of the day. Even days later, when someone would get grumpy, one of the other members of the Lindsey Quartet would belt out a verse of our now favorite song.
For your listening and/or singing enjoyment, follow this link and click on the last song on the left column called, of course, “There Are Raisins in my Toast.” Enjoy.
Click here to hear song.