HASH BROWNS

A Love Story with Trust Issues

Let’s talk about something sacred. Not religion. Not politics. I’m talking hash browns.

Depending on where you grew up, hash browns mean different things. My mom’s version? Thick potato slices tossed with a fistful of onions. They were soft, buttery, and balanced on a knife’s edge between Southern perfection and a full-blown grease fire.

Other folks do them shredded and crisped into oblivion, with cheese, peppers, sausage — a skillet full of comfort if that’s your style. Still, as my mom used to say, there are cooks who could screw up an iron wedge.

That’s where my story begins.

One morning I got a little fancy. Treated myself. Walked my happy butt down the street to a local French restaurant. You know the type — tiny café tables, tiny coffee cups, smaller-than-small portions, and a menu that dares you to order without pointing.

I’d had their pastries before. They’re good. Flaky. Magical even. So, I figured, “How bad could breakfast be?”

Turns out... real bad.

I ordered hash browns. Because I had faith. I believed that surely a French chef, with his awards and imported salts, couldn’t mess up the most dependable breakfast food in America.

What showed up on my plate? I still don’t know.
It was wet. Like soup-wet. And shaped like it had been ladled onto the plate with a dented shoehorn. I gave it a poke, hoping the inside held some promise. It did not. It tasted like the mop bucket behind a Long John Silver’s — not that I’ve ever sipped one, but you get the picture.

I didn’t send it back though. And all I could think was…
“I ordered hash browns in a French restaurant. This is on me.”

Meanwhile, across town, Waffle House was doing what it always does best, slinging golden, crispy, carb-filled therapy, even at 2 AM, to truckers, bachelorettes, and college kids majoring in bad choices.

I get mine scattered and smothered because I like to live dangerously. That’s a hash brown done right — crispy edges, soft middle, onions perfectly caramelized, and seasoned by a guy named Earl who has seen a lot and lived to griddle about it.

That day at the French place, I didn’t eat breakfast. I ate my pride. But I gained clarity.

Waffle House, you may mark yourself safe.

’Cause when it comes to hash browns, I don’t want truffle oil. I don’t want a potato foam reduction. And hell no to caviar aioli drizzled on top.

I want comfort. I want flavor.
I want Earl at Waffle House. 💕

That’s The Condition — golden, crispy, and too good to miss. Subscribe and come back hungry.