french toast

In an effort to preserve my sense of myself as a nice human being, I made french toast this morning, with big fat heavy bread, vanilla and cinnamon, and a selection of homemade jams and honey and syrup to dredge it in. I made the breakfast in memory of Mira, one of the girl's friends, who always seems to spend the night and wake up on a morning when I feel domestic--or at least nice. She is always grateful, and asked last time, "Do you do this every morning?"

Betty Crocker I am not. I never wanted to be. Still don't.

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