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Some people love Taco Bell. They feel a cosmic pull to the gordita supreme. Others worship at the temple of a Starbucks barista who will never spell their name right on a cup. But me? My favorite chain is heavenly, sacred, and elusive like a miracle (if you live in New Jersey, that is). It’s Waffle House. Sweet, wholesome Waffle House. I’m obsessed and everybody knows it. My fixation began with an episode of Anthony Bourdain: Parts Unknown that romanticized the Southern chain, describing it as “an irony-free zone where everything is beautiful and nothing hurts; where everybody … is welcomed. Its warm yellow glow a beacon of hope … inviting the hungry, the lost, the seriously hammered ... to come inside.” Bourdain’s description sounds like nothing short of a religious experience, and Waffle House resonates with me in this way. The thing that makes Waffle House special besides the delicious namesake, impeccable service, and commitment to transparency (open kitchens for the win! Who doesn’t love watching an egg somersault perfectly from the edge of a spatula and then sizzle on a grill?) is the way I feel in relation to it. At night in my hometown, (New York Times-reviewed Nutley, New Jersey, lol) you can see the New York skyline glisten from a hilltop. I used to whoop, cheer, and squeal thinking about my future across the Hudson River. But as a current PATH train commuter, I no longer feel that way seeing the skyline. But I do feel that way when I’m driving down the I-95 for a weekend trip at the old alma mater and see that yellow square on a green highway sign. Is it salvation or salivation? I’m not sure, but I do know that it makes me feel abundantly happy to know I am approaching a Waffle House after wandering the desert of North Jersey brunch after brunch for some local substitute that never cuts the muster. I also associate Waffle House with being a constant during transitions. Leaving college was tough -- I left my boyfriend, my friends, and potential career opportunities. My heart was there, but it was time to go. When I moved out of my apartment in Maryland, my mom and I left on empty stomachs and I had been crying. But then, we approached the Waffle House in Havre de Grace, Maryland. I got a plain waffle, chocolate milk, a side of bacon and smothered (Waffle House-speak for onions) hashbrowns. And things began to feel OK -- the meal restored me. I posted a photo of that meal on Insta and captioned it “blessed” because that is how I truly felt. Ten months later, I revisited that Waffle House and I was alone and happy with my life situation, thanking God I no longer lived in Maryland and broke up with that dude. Ten months later, I still felt blessed. I am convinced Waffle House is a saint and its obnoxious yellow perimeter is its halo.