Waffle House – or how I made my brother sick

Torrential rain ruined our sun-and-sand plans for our first morning at Perdido Beach, so we did what any insane family would do – we went to Waffle House.

In my defense, I'd only been to Waffle House once before in my life – at 3am in Mississippi, with a worse-for-wear Justin and Nathan, and a fight had broken out the second we walked in the door. Glass bottles were thrown, fake maple syrup splashed everywhere, police were called.

Wait – that's not sounding much like a defense.

How's this: Shelley wanted to go. She wanted a "real Southern experience" and my word, if the sheer number of Waffle Houses in the South are any indication, it's an experience the Southerners really embrace. Seriously (and sadly) you can't go three blocks without running into one.


So in we went, brave and foolish. Shelley thought the thing to do at Waffle House would be to have waffles. Berry and I stuck with scrambled eggs and toast, while Jules (with my encouragement, I'm ashamed to say) had some version of the American Breakfast.

It was a bad idea. I'd completely overlooked the fact that Jules doesn't have an iron-clad stomach like our brother Aaron (who's been known to eat, among other things, whole prawns with their shells and heads still on – yes, my stomach just turned over too).

The American Breakfast did poor Jules in. He spent the rest of the day turning various shades of green and saying valiantly, "Well, I don't think I'm going to be sick right now." I felt terrible for not being a more cautious tour guide, but not everyone minded so much. The waffles – and the whole Waffle House misadvanture – sat well with Shelley. "Despite everything, I'm very pleased we went," she said cheerfully. "It really was an experience."