I always find this humorous.
I wish it was something like my humor or the fun conversations. Or even the fact that Molly and I read together still most nights snuggled into our big bed just us girls. Or the fact, that I will pick her up from school most days because the bus ride is so long, even though we only live about a mile away, and there are boys on her bus that are bugging her. Or that we go to the movies together and eat too much popcorn and candy. You know, those things.
It is my french toast. At least is was this morning. I used to whip out french toast quite a lot. We had laying hens back then, a glut of eggs and both kids loved it. But, now that we know that Shea is allergic to wheat, eggs and milk, french toast has been relegated to the occasional or when Shea is at Gramma's.
I feel bad making something that he can't eat. At least, right in front of him but he is not feeling well this morning, not really eating much and relaxing in front of a movie.
This morning, Molly said, "Can I have french toast, please?" Hopefully, earnestly. How can anyone resist that?
So, I whipped up a batch. The fasted french toast milk batter in the west, bright yellow due to the fabulous fresh eggs from GGF's Stop Sign Farm. I still got it!
"Oh, thank you, thank you, mom!" she says, daintily soaking up every dollop of real maple syrup. "I have missed it so much."
I try to imagine her remembering how she loved my french toast when she is an adult, perhaps making it for her kids. I had heard once that a parent's job is to give their kids happy memories of their childhood.
Does good french toast count? Can't hurt.
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