Waffles and Chili

Dad continues to improve. My brother and I spent all Thursday night and Friday morning with him, until the rest of the family arrived in his hospital room, when we went home to sleep for a few hours. Dad was intermittently awake during the night, and he and I had lots of conversations -- and most of them even made sense, which is remarkable, given the seriousness of his surgery and the level of medication in his body.

Finally, about 10 a.m., my brother and I left and went to the restaurant whose sign is casting that distinctive shadow on the parking lot to the left. Those of you in the United States will no doubt recognize it. I ate a gigantic breakfast of grits, waffles, eggs and toast, and I have never been happier.

Last night we had a less successful meal. We went to Chili's, where I had -- of course -- a bowl of chili. It most closely resembled something Olga would eat. So I have learned to avoid that particular chain's raison d'être.

Oh, and speaking of French, I wrote a carefully composed note to my French teacher yesterday morning, telling him I would not be in class today and why. I was pretty proud of it -- I used my tenses and I think I did it correctly -- and I posted it on our class discussion page online. And then I immediately realized we don't have class today anyway because Monday is a bank holiday in England. Merde! So I erased my carefully composed message.

(Top photo: My stepmother's staghorn ferns, which are decades old.)