The husband returned yesterday from his trip to Los Angeles. After four days of being on our own, Frances and I welcomed him cheerily back to the den, plying him with cold beer and chocolate chip cookies when he arrived so that he knew how happy we were to see him. He seemed pleased with these offerings, and in turn pulled out a compilation of mystery stories, Los Angeles Noir, that he'd picked up for me at my favorite book store, Book Soup, in Hollywood. In no time at all we were settled in the living room and he filled me in on his trip, which had been very successful indeed.
This morning, we had our typical Sunday morning: Peets coffee and The New York Times. Sometimes on the weekend I bake something for breakfast, like popovers, scones, or muffins, or the occasional crumb cake; today I decided to make French toast. We had leftover sourdough bread from last night's dinner which I thought would work nicely.
The funny thing is, I've never made French toast. But I felt confident I could do it. I mean, fried bread, right? What's so hard about that?
While the griddle heated up, I poured some milk, cinnamon, and nutmeg in a bowl and was about to crack an egg in it when the husband intervened.
"Don't do that," he said.
"You have way too much milk in there. Hand it to me," he said.
All of a sudden I'm married to Jacques Pepin?
But I was won over by his confidence. And truthfully, I had no idea whether or not he was right. So I watched as he poured out about three quarters of the milk. Wordlessly, he handed back the bowl.
I just stared at him.
"Now you can crack the eggs," he said approvingly.
I was able to take it from there. Good thing, too. The husband is responsible for handling all things car, computer, cable, stereo, and bicycle-related, stubborn jar lids, minor plumbing and electrical repairs, and anything that requires reaching a high shelf. I only have one skill to contribute to the family, which is cooking. Clearly, I need to step up my game before I'm rendered totally useless. Thinking about his French toast savvy, I wondered what else he knows that he hasn't revealed. Am I going to return home one day to find him making puff pastry from scratch?
The main thing to note, though, is that the French toast was delicious, smothered in maple syrup with fresh blueberries, with perfectly crisp bacon on the side. A good welcome home breakfast for sure.
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