Jazzy is my oldest friend. To be able to say you’ve known anyone twenty years at my age is a terrifying thing. We were not always “best” friends, and we would go for semesters of school without speaking. But when we got home for vacations, we would inevitably call on either of our last days of freedom to check-in.
It was always the diner. The Millbrook Diner is world famous. I have literally been on planes next to strangers who say “you’re from Millbrook? They have the most phenomenal diner there.” My brother went away to college in Ohio where his advisor had eaten at our diner and loved it. My fiancé’s photographers at work adore the Millbrook Diner. It is the stuff of legends.
Jazzy and I have been going there to each cheesy potatoes and drinkable chocolate for as long as I can remember. Before we hit double digits, our parents would take us. I ate bacon omelets- no-cheese and she at slightly fried blueberry muffins. We talked about stickers and kitty cats. When her cat Dennis died, I cried more than she did. I do not know why.
Once we were about twelve, boy-talk got so nauseating to my mother and her father that we were dropped off. I ate bacon omelets-no-cheese with French fries, or fried shrimp baskets and she had pizza burgers or grilled swiss eaten with a fork and knife doused in ketchup. My dad was commuting from the UK, returning every weekend to watch my brothers swim. Jazzy and I drank chocolate milk and talked about boys. I think that was it. Boys and boys. Nice sneakers, cool shirts.
Boarding school was where I figured our friendship would end. Jazzy had always been more outgoing and popular than myself and now, we would be in different states. But still, we would call each other on that last day of vacation and one would watch the other pack. Then we’d go to the diner. She always made fun of how I did not like cheese on my omelets. “Who doesn’t eat cheese on their eggs?” she would always ask the waitress when I ordered. Unless it was a burger (I never really liked her beloved pizza burger), I ended up eating most of her food anyway.
We made it through those difficult years. I even moved to England and back and we managed diner trips over vacation. At Christmas in the diner, they paint the windows with water colors of holiday scenes. They start crisp and beautiful and end up scratched with people’s names in them by New Year’s. We would watch the snow fall against the backdrop of the bank across the street and the single stop light in our town. Hot chocolate with extra whipped cream and spaghetti and meatballs. The spaghetti is always overcooked but it is a classic. My brother eats it every time he has a personal crisis.
In college, Jazzy’s mother went on vacation to Jamaica and did not come back. My house became the refrigerator she raided and the cable she watched. We both took up coffee to match our new, grown-up life. She would fill her spoon with sugar and then lower it till it just touched the surface of the coffee, immediately soaking and turning brown. Then, she would plunge it in and stir it around. At first, she would describe the process as she went. I moved to Spain and back, returning with Blanco Y Negros (coffee poured over vanilla ice cream). Bacon omelet-no-cheese with hash browns. Nope. Still no cheese. When I was away at school missing her, I would order a grilled swiss with ketchup and eat it with a knife and fork.
Boyfriends and new friends came and went. Whoever was in town was permitted on this ritual. A ritual that became sacred without us ever knowing it. We liked some of them, disliked others. Winter break became the most important because it was always our own. With her mom on a beach, she was always up for squeezing into a booth and staring at the bank. With my twin brothers keeping my parents at perpetual swim meets, I was always happy for the slushy walk to the diner. And winter break always meant that it was just us. Boyfriends and friends had their own families to go home to.
I first met Joe at the diner. I did not like him. They lived together. His family was in Vegas and did not care about holidays so before long, he was always there if she was. Totally boring and un-engaging. How can anyone so horrid capture the love of someone appropriately named “Jazzy?” When they broke up, I was a bad friend and told her every time I saw her how much I had not liked him. I liked others though. I’m not a terrible friend.
She met Jack for the first time at the diner. He and I had been going to Millbrook on weekends for almost a year. We met in college and moved to New York City the day after graduation. We fell in love. The weekly tradition of the diner meant something new to me. The focus shifted from the table and the eggs over easy with corned beef hash and hash browns, to the bustle of the place. We know the waiter. We know about his love life and his occasionally imprisoned room mate. We even knew the customers who usually came at our time of the morning.
Jazzy met us there and loved Jack. She nattered on over eggs and hash browns with melted cheddar about how things were going. She filled her spoon with sugar, tapped it to the surface of the coffee and dunked the mixture in without even mentioning it. Quite possibly without even noticing it. I finished her cheesy potatoes for her. It was all the same.
Last Christmas, Jack went home to Reno to be with his family. I wore a Santa hat and met Jazzy. Coffee, eggs, cheese, omelet-no-cheese. “How can you order an omelet without cheese?” The snow swirled, the slush slushed, the bank looked old. The diner was warm. Jack’s and my waiter left us alone.
Jack and I met Mike at the diner for the first time. He’s an odd duck but he makes her happy. Cheesy potatoes that I did not finish and no sugar on the spoon. They got a house and a puppy and moved in together last weekend.
Jack and I are engaged. For the party, Jazzy and Mike came into the city. We all had breakfast at a fancy place the next morning to nurse the hangovers and prepare for a morning of trying on bridesmaid dresses. I had two eggs over easy with cheddar on them and potatoes with tea and grapefruit juice. She had an omelet with cheese and cheesy potatoes. Coffee with a spoon full of sopping sugar. It’s getting colder and the watercolored windows at the diner have turkeys on them. I think we are both excited for the pictures that come next.
It was always the diner. The Millbrook Diner is world famous. I have literally been on planes next to strangers who say “you’re from Millbrook? They have the most phenomenal diner there.” My brother went away to college in Ohio where his advisor had eaten at our diner and loved it. My fiancé’s photographers at work adore the Millbrook Diner. It is the stuff of legends.
Jazzy and I have been going there to each cheesy potatoes and drinkable chocolate for as long as I can remember. Before we hit double digits, our parents would take us. I ate bacon omelets- no-cheese and she at slightly fried blueberry muffins. We talked about stickers and kitty cats. When her cat Dennis died, I cried more than she did. I do not know why.
Once we were about twelve, boy-talk got so nauseating to my mother and her father that we were dropped off. I ate bacon omelets-no-cheese with French fries, or fried shrimp baskets and she had pizza burgers or grilled swiss eaten with a fork and knife doused in ketchup. My dad was commuting from the UK, returning every weekend to watch my brothers swim. Jazzy and I drank chocolate milk and talked about boys. I think that was it. Boys and boys. Nice sneakers, cool shirts.
Boarding school was where I figured our friendship would end. Jazzy had always been more outgoing and popular than myself and now, we would be in different states. But still, we would call each other on that last day of vacation and one would watch the other pack. Then we’d go to the diner. She always made fun of how I did not like cheese on my omelets. “Who doesn’t eat cheese on their eggs?” she would always ask the waitress when I ordered. Unless it was a burger (I never really liked her beloved pizza burger), I ended up eating most of her food anyway.
We made it through those difficult years. I even moved to England and back and we managed diner trips over vacation. At Christmas in the diner, they paint the windows with water colors of holiday scenes. They start crisp and beautiful and end up scratched with people’s names in them by New Year’s. We would watch the snow fall against the backdrop of the bank across the street and the single stop light in our town. Hot chocolate with extra whipped cream and spaghetti and meatballs. The spaghetti is always overcooked but it is a classic. My brother eats it every time he has a personal crisis.
In college, Jazzy’s mother went on vacation to Jamaica and did not come back. My house became the refrigerator she raided and the cable she watched. We both took up coffee to match our new, grown-up life. She would fill her spoon with sugar and then lower it till it just touched the surface of the coffee, immediately soaking and turning brown. Then, she would plunge it in and stir it around. At first, she would describe the process as she went. I moved to Spain and back, returning with Blanco Y Negros (coffee poured over vanilla ice cream). Bacon omelet-no-cheese with hash browns. Nope. Still no cheese. When I was away at school missing her, I would order a grilled swiss with ketchup and eat it with a knife and fork.
Boyfriends and new friends came and went. Whoever was in town was permitted on this ritual. A ritual that became sacred without us ever knowing it. We liked some of them, disliked others. Winter break became the most important because it was always our own. With her mom on a beach, she was always up for squeezing into a booth and staring at the bank. With my twin brothers keeping my parents at perpetual swim meets, I was always happy for the slushy walk to the diner. And winter break always meant that it was just us. Boyfriends and friends had their own families to go home to.
I first met Joe at the diner. I did not like him. They lived together. His family was in Vegas and did not care about holidays so before long, he was always there if she was. Totally boring and un-engaging. How can anyone so horrid capture the love of someone appropriately named “Jazzy?” When they broke up, I was a bad friend and told her every time I saw her how much I had not liked him. I liked others though. I’m not a terrible friend.
She met Jack for the first time at the diner. He and I had been going to Millbrook on weekends for almost a year. We met in college and moved to New York City the day after graduation. We fell in love. The weekly tradition of the diner meant something new to me. The focus shifted from the table and the eggs over easy with corned beef hash and hash browns, to the bustle of the place. We know the waiter. We know about his love life and his occasionally imprisoned room mate. We even knew the customers who usually came at our time of the morning.
Jazzy met us there and loved Jack. She nattered on over eggs and hash browns with melted cheddar about how things were going. She filled her spoon with sugar, tapped it to the surface of the coffee and dunked the mixture in without even mentioning it. Quite possibly without even noticing it. I finished her cheesy potatoes for her. It was all the same.
Last Christmas, Jack went home to Reno to be with his family. I wore a Santa hat and met Jazzy. Coffee, eggs, cheese, omelet-no-cheese. “How can you order an omelet without cheese?” The snow swirled, the slush slushed, the bank looked old. The diner was warm. Jack’s and my waiter left us alone.
Jack and I met Mike at the diner for the first time. He’s an odd duck but he makes her happy. Cheesy potatoes that I did not finish and no sugar on the spoon. They got a house and a puppy and moved in together last weekend.
Jack and I are engaged. For the party, Jazzy and Mike came into the city. We all had breakfast at a fancy place the next morning to nurse the hangovers and prepare for a morning of trying on bridesmaid dresses. I had two eggs over easy with cheddar on them and potatoes with tea and grapefruit juice. She had an omelet with cheese and cheesy potatoes. Coffee with a spoon full of sopping sugar. It’s getting colder and the watercolored windows at the diner have turkeys on them. I think we are both excited for the pictures that come next.
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