Twenty-four hours ago I was eating breakfast at The Mirage with my two sisters, a brother-in-law, and my wife. The Mirage is Adrian’s café. Adrian is one of those little towns that can be found in rural areas where farm families go to school, where they get groceries between times they go to the larger city 10 or 20 miles on down the road. It’s where some go to church on Sunday morning and it’s the place to go for a good breakfast. Five generations of my brother-in-laws family—farmers and teachers—have lived in this community. Adrian is on the Oregon side of the Snake River. You don’t have to look far to see what sort of desert this was before irrigation and a lot of hard work turned the area into productive farm land.

Inside the café I assume our waiter and cook is also the owner of the establishment. I can more easily picture this guy in a machine shop than in a kitchen. My order was for a pancake and two eggs over medium. This is the world where one pancake fills a plate and a stomach.