Two Eggs (Over Medium)

I.

Sparks, Nevada, is Reno's ugly sister. The two towns, er, cities were founded within a few miles of each other and have grown into one boisterous community with an imaginary, zig-zag line somewhere in the middle-- like a hairline crack in a fresh egg. No one knows exactly where the line is, except the politicians. And the post office. Sparks is the part of town where all of the heavy lifting gets done: Grocery stores all over Reno, for example, are supplied by giant distribution warehouses in Sparks. Those warehouses are in turn stocked mainly with goods from California-based suppliers. Commerce in the greater Reno area (in all its forms) is heavily dependent upon California. This can be a problem sometimes. Reno's logistical ties to the golden state are tenuous, especially in winter.

New arrivals to northern California are told by established residents that when winter comes, there is good news and bad. The good news is it isn't as cold as wherever you're from. The bad news? It rains. Every. Day.

Relatively warm Pacific winds march in from off of the whitecapped waves, burdened with so much moisture that it seems to defy science. They trek across relatively flat land for several dozen miles, spilling a good portion of their watery load as they go, causing denizens of the golden valley to scowl, pull up their collars, hunch down their heads, mutter things like, "Noah was no schmuck," and call their agent for more mudslide insurance. The prevailing winds press onward until they reach the high, sharp ridges of the Sierra Nevada mountains. Here they pause, briefly. They pile themselves up, up and up into the stratosphere. They seem, almost, to take a deep breath or two... And then they unleash themselves into frenzied, screaming, laughing, writhing, unending multiple orgasms of heavy snow.

Reno's major lifeline, Interstate 80, runs through Donner Pass. Donner Summit sits high atop an exposed ridge on the very spine of the Sierras. At over 7200 feet, it is the second-highest point on the big, transcontinental road. When snow starts to fly, Cal-Trans (the California D.O.T.) moves quickly and in force to impose tight travel restrictions.

There are three major truckstops in the immediate Reno-Sparks area. Whenever Cal-Trans begins to swagger and hitch their belts and talk like John Wayne, the truckstops quickly fill to overflowing. For most truckers on the Nevada side of the mountains, it's an easy choice to simply stay put. Nevada is a playground, while California is --by far-- the single least trucker-friendly state in the Union.

II.

I had lost at the poker table again dammit, so I decided to treat myself to breakfast. After all, there's nothing like clogging your arteries with mediocre, lard-based food that you know you shouldn't eat to make you feel better about chasing an inside straight that you know you shouldn't have chased dammit.

The waitress pulled out a pen and a notepad as she approached the guy two booths away from me. She was doing a pretty good job of pretending that she wasn't too dog-tired to care, but it showed just a little bit around the edges. The guy ordered bacon and eggs. "Sausage and eggs," she said. "We don't have any bacon. Our truck didn't make it over the hill."

I couldn't help grinning at the irony: Truck drivers, stranded by bad weather, running out of food because other truck drivers were stranded elsewhere.

She flipped a page on her notepad and walked over to me. I smiled. I ordered sausage and eggs. Over medium, please. "Homefries with that?" she asked. No, actually, I wanted hashbrowns. "We don't have any hashbrowns," she said. "Our truck didn't make it over the hill."

I chuckled. Ironic AND the epitome of paint-by-the-numbers cooking. Hashbrowns and homefries are (as I'm sure you know) the same thing: cut-up, fried potatoes. The only difference is in how finely you cut them. Yet, here was a restaurant that was forced to admit that they'd run out of one but not the other, because every item on the menu basically comes pre-packaged. All they really do is program the microwave and then throw it on a plate.

There's an old travelers' maxim, "Eat where the truckers eat-- they know where all of the really good (and inexpensive) food is." Well, take it from a truck driver: If you eat where the truckers eat, you won't learn where all the really good food is. What you'll learn is where all the REALLY BIG parking lots are.

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P.S... Bud "Light At The End Of The Tunnel Is An Oncoming Train" Selig must go.