I wanted this.

So I did this to Quickbread Sandwich Bread.

And put it in this and that.

So it ended up like this.

And it was all mine. With a knife and fork. A cloth napkin. And the sweetest little cup of milk you’ve ever seen. Like a grown up.

The children don’t even know about it. They were gone. By the time they got home, not a crumb remained. I’ve totally been flying high on the memory ever since.

I make great-tasting, can’t-tell-it’s-inexpensive-gluten-free-bread all the time. Not news. Ask me if I eat bread — of any stripe — all the time. I’ll tell you that I save it for the children, without even realizing it.

Real life. It gets messy. And crowded. Densely populated, with people large and small. I made the small ones, and most of the time I’m pretty sweet on them. They’re still a bit round, soft around the edges even. I smell their heads, and it smells like beginnings. When the 3 of them collapse into giggles over a joke only they understand, and they piled atop one another, begging for mercy, my heart swells. I don’t remember having that as a child. Do you? It must be the most amazing feeling in the whole wide world. Unconditional acceptance, and pure joy. My son had a bad day at school and turns to his big sister for comfort on the bus ride home. Before they even get to me, together they’ve sussed out a fix for what ails him.  The little one goes to a different school still, but next year they’ll all 3 be together. They can’t wait, and neither can I. Oh the places they’ll go.

But sometimes? I wish they’d disappear, like so much magic. *poof* I bet they think the same thing about me. And I’m totally cool with that.

It’s normal. Ordinary. I do not strive to enjoy my children’s company every minute of every day. As I understand it, they’re going to bury me sooner or later. So in the meantime, why regret not having made myself some perfect Doughnut French Toast, then eating it uninterrupted?

You should totally do this for yourself. Even if work all day outside the home and you have to do it at 10:00 at night. It’s Friday.  Time for a break. Don’t even try to tell me that you don’t deserve it. If you only knew. The cinnamon-sugar mixture pressed into the warm fried toast, such a satisfying sweet crunch before it yields to the soft center of even the thinnest slice of crusty white bread, is so very right. The hint of vanilla in the milk and egg mixture gives it just enough depth to please.

It’s doughnut french toast for one. It can be multiplied, but from where I’m standing — it shouldn’t be.

Love,

Me