Swirls Cafe was a one-man band Saturday morn. The owner/chef/server/cashier whipped up a fine mess of eggs, fried potatoes, cheese grits and sausage gravy biscuits all the while chatting with  counter customers on whether Civil War bullets were lead or cast iron, the merits of commuting, wine-tasting and of course the weather. True, his server hadn't shown up that morning, yet I had the feeling that whenever life tried to slam a door shut, his foot would always be stuck in the crack.