Can I make you French toast this morning?
My son’s eager eyes convey pleasure at the thought of
a real mom-made breakfast,
not frozen, not shaken out from a box,
nor spread between two pieces of wheat bread.
Do I have the ingredients? Let’s see…
here’s eggs, white bread,
in the cupboard the cinnamon, and near the coffee-maker
a container holding hundreds of pink packets, and lucky for us
several white Domino packets of the real stuff.
But there’s no milk in the fridge.
No problem – I’ll use half & half!
It’s the same thing, pretty much.
In fact, it’ll probably taste better.
I gather everything and get to work.
Crack open three eggs, pour in the “milk”,
shake in a bunch of cinnamon, and pour in a few sugar packets.
I do that thing that the chefs do with a fork, really fast
making sure he sees me.
He’ll have a memory of me making him French toast.
I drop a glob of butter in the pan,
and while it melts, I place the bread in to the stuff I’ve mixed,
letting it soak.
With my fork, I stab the bread and transport it across
several inches of countertop
dripping cinnamon-egg slop along the way,
and lay it in the sizzling pan.
He walks by, and I’m humming, poking at the bread with the fork,
peaking underneath to see if it’s time to turn it over.
Is that what it’s supposed to look like? we both wonder.
After a while, both sides look ready, I place the toast on a plate and
take it to the table where my son waits, smiling.
This is awesome! he says, while I watch him eat.
I’ll have a memory of him eating French toast,
that I made for him.