Baby for Breakfast

Prospect, OR
Crater Lake Campground

Today we popped into Prospect Oregon's one diner, next to its one bar, next to its one grocery and its one hotel (!) and ordered an 11 o'clock breakfast. The place was empty; a waitress riffled through a stack of newspapers and took a couple of sections into the bathroom. Our waitress, a really pretty, heavyset woman in her late 30's, told us breakfast was cut off at 11, and the cook had just cleaned the grill.

We acknowledged his hard work, but told her it was eggs or nothing and we'd just pay for the coffee. She went back to the kitchen for the third time, and on her return she allowed as how the cook was willing to make us breakfast.

Fine. John was annoyed, I was amused and the waitress was delighted. She'd been able to get the cook to change his mind, although he'd probably be mad at her for the rest of the day. A couple of customers came and went, hunters from the look of things. Our breakfast finally emerged, and was served with a big smile. A few minutes later, the waitress returned to our table. She was carrying a photograph.

"Wanna see my baby?" she asked, coyly. She handed the picture to John, and he passed it to me without comment.

There she was, kneeling beside a huge deer, its rack enormous, its forehead bloody. "My first buck," she said, proudly. "He's my baby."

Lady, you just murdered this magnificent creature and you're calling him your baby?

Eeuw. I looked down at the homemade sausage that I'd sampled. It definitely wasn't pork. I think we were having baby for breakfast.

Oregon. It ain't California.