221st Southumberland Waffleers
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The 221st Southumberland Waffleers is an informal society of Sherlockians who enjoy fellowship while consuming "vittles" from one of America's iconic restaurants.
We currently have 52 members who have met the very simple requirements for eligibility... simply dine at a Waffle House while attending a Sherlock Holmes event. |
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Our Society name is an homage to both John H. Watson (who served in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers) and to 221bCon, held each year in Atlanta, where the Society was first born.
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221 Be Waffling
Brad Keefauver, BSI
Brad Keefauver, BSI
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Here dine together still, true fans of Holmes
Who order eggs, and so the cook must fry. How many peers they gain, how far Steve roams! That sage who gets us to give WH a try . But still a table’s open for those with mouths Hungry to taste their breakfast, bite, and chew. Waffles are waffles yet, here at this House. Oh, here they feed a Sherlockian crew. A yellow yoke swirls into scrambled egg, As toast warms within its toaster’s heat. Some chili smothered hash browns, we beg, The cheesy grits don’t fail to be a treat. Here, though some fights explode, we still arrive. And the two egg breakfast costs five ninety-five. |
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The Waffle House Poem
The Official Waffle House Poet Laureate, Karen Head, gave us permission to post her poem about our favorite gathering spot... |
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Always Open
In the dream, I’m back on the road driving south from Lincoln, NE toward Kansas City, windows half way down, Midwest winter air smacking me awake, reminding me to breathe. I’m suffering. Homesickness is the story I tell, but I know there’s more to it, this loneliness, these too fast heartbeats, this need to escape. Just outside St. Joe, traffic from the KC airport roars overhead, and just off the exit I see it, glowing warm yellow in the darkness, so I pull in. This is no photoshopped Hopper Nighthawks. No, this is home, always open, always there waiting for me past any curfew. |
I shake snow from my hair,
find the place empty, except for one counter stool, which begins to spin and Bourdain tells me to join him, so I do because I’ve got nowhere else to be. I shout, “Scattered, smothered, covered, diced, and capped,” and laughter erupts. Now the place is full of people I couldn’t save. We are all eating pecan waffles, telling each other stories, and I say, “Someday, maybe, I’ll find a way to be happy,” and Bourdain says, “Don’t you have somewhere you should be?” The faint sound of the airplanes begins to amplify, everything begins to shake. I dive down, cover my ears, shut my eyes to the looming shadows-- startled, I find myself back in Atlanta, you are snoring again, and, for once, for always, this makes me happy. |
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