A few years ago, I realized that I was an IHOP kind of guy. We were eating at IHOP (yes, International House of Pancakes ) and it was one of those “aha” moments. I wish it had been a classy Italian restaurant with the white table cloth, the maitre de, the fine glasses. But no, I’m talking IHOP—kids eat free on Fridays IHOP. Lower-middle class IHOP. I relax when I’m there. I don’t feel stuffy, don’t feel like people are going to look at me funny if I forget to put my napkin on my lap or use my salad fork with the main entrée or my regular fork with the salad. I have no clue when it comes to those things. Just now, I realized I don’t even know what to call the main fork to distinguish it from a salad fork. Is there a different word? I don’t even know. That’s why I belong at IHOP. It doesn’t matter there. On that night, I ordered fish n’ chips. I know, a guy my age shouldn’t be eating deep-fried food, but I don’t like Greek salads and olives and cucumbers or cold noodles or any of those...
by Chris Rainey. This is a blog of my journaling, essays, opinion pieces, religious satire, and creative writing.