she don't know what she talkin about

"This lady don't know what she talkin' about!" the waitress smirked and slammed shut my menu, rolling her eyes at the others seated around the table. "Half acre? She crazy. She can't eat that much. Order a quarter and then tell me if you hungry after you finish," the waitress yelled out with her gruff voice and rushed off to get us some "coppee."

"I thought you wanted to share the pancakes," I nearly whispered to my friend seated across the table, probably blushing. The deal was done. The waitress, who doubled as the restaurant owner scolded me and I didn't dare protest. She isn't even Czech, I thought to myself, and she can still get away with barking at her customers. But for some reason my friends found her charming and amusing.

"One time this guy come here and order a full acre and eggs, hash, bacon and he ate everything. I said, 'Don't get sick. Don't be a hero," she recounted. I pictured a giant Texan with an extra, extra large cowboy hat, stuffing himself full of grease. Too greedy for his own good was the moral of the story. I shuddered at the thought that I was the one who caused that memory to surface.

The pancake showed up. I slid the butter off with my knife into an empty half-and-half dish. The owner caught me red-handed, "Next time you tell me no butter!" I grumbled into my lap, "I didn't think of it." But my friends stood up for me this time, "We will use the butter, don't worry."

I did enjoy my buttermilk pancake, reveling in its fluffiness. And while in food coma, the left over pancake noodle on my plate spoke to me, "See how happy I made you? Why hold a grudge? Forgive the waitress. She didn't even ask you if you were expecting another baby."