On days like these, there’s nothing better than a nice breakfast to really hit the spot. I’d like to share my favorite recipe for French Toast with you- but first, let me tell you about when I was taught to make it!
Twas a morning like any other in my boyhood. Mother stood in her apron in front of the window, spending another empty hour staring upon the fields and the path to our shabby home. Father wasn’t coming home, not today and not ever. Some part of her must have known that, yet she’d never stop holding out hope. Perhaps this would be the day he’d come walking up that long dirt road to the front door this morning after all. She’d run to meet him, they’d embrace, and life could go back to normal.
Ha. Normal takes on such a different meaning after your whole life is shattered in a moment’s worth of words. Maybe they were wrong, maybe he wasn’t in the plane when it went down. Maybe he’d survived the crash. Maybe one day Mother would realize that still believing there was a chance he’d come back was folly. Nevertheless, she stood staring out that tiny window every morning. It seemed to be the only light that poured into the room, and her silhouette against the light was angelic. Just like Father must be now.
Mother always said he was too good for this world. I didn’t understand what she meant for a long time. She did her best after we lost him, but things weren’t ever the same. For weeks at a time she’d go silent, as if all the words she’d ever known had died with him in that wreck, and the few times she attempted speaking were cut short by a sudden onset of sobbing. No one could ever console her… not except for Father. Was it irony or just a cruel cosmic joke that when she needed him most, he disappeared?
Damn the war. Damn the commanders for letting Father take that flight over enemy lines. Damn his honor, the need to do right… was it worth it dad? Did you get what you wanted? What did it cost in the end? No one can explain to you the anger that grief brings until you’ve felt the hate and shame it brings you. He died and we’re the ones who paid for it.
I’m sorry pa. You did what was right, till the end. You’ve always been a hero. No dirty Allied gunner can take that from you. I promised Mom as soon as I was old enough, I’d join the Luftwaffe too, just like you. Ein Volk, ein Reich, ein Führer!
Those dirty Frenchmen may have taken my father from me and the rest of Germany, but they sure do make a good breakfast! After Mother finally got done moping, she taught me this recipe. Hope you enjoy!
- In a large bowl, beat two eggs. Stir in half a cup of milk, one teaspoon vanilla extract, one teaspoon cinnamon, and a dash of nutmeg. Be careful not to over do your egg beating, they’re not enemies of the state like those filthy, scheming- sorry, I’m off-topic!
- Once combined, pour the mixture into a baking dish large enough to soak your bread in. Place the bread slices in the egg mixture, coating evenly and letting them sit with plenty of time to absorb. This can take up to twenty minutes, plenty of time to read another chapter of My Struggle for your Book Club Putsch next week.
- Heat a large skillet on medium-low, and add enough butter to coat the surface. Add the bread and cook until each slice is golden brown on both sides. Be wary of bread that browns too fast, as it may not be fully cooked internally. Serve with your daily ration of syrup or a nice blitzkrieg strike of powdered sugar and dig in!
A Simple Recipe For French Toast.