Indiana French Toast

The other day I was helping a costumer.  He wanted a breakfast bread, so I suggested Cinnamon Explosion.  When he tried some off the bread board he said it was too sweet.  I tried to convince him that sweet is what you need in the morning.  Unmoved by my slight protest, he settled with plain Country French bread. As I sliced the bread I smelled french toast.  It was a weird sensation.  I slice this bread everyday, but today I smelled french toast and craved it.  I could already taste the chewy toast  as I plotted to make it for breakfast with Country French.









 Cracking eggs was the high light of baking when I was little. Now I don't know why.  Maybe it was the sensation of breaking open a shell that I could only break open once, a shell that had never been cracked.  At the present, I hate the sticky yolk that drips down my fingers. Six eggs seemed like enough.  Mom suggested I add some water and cinnamon as I whisked them up.  The buttered pan sizzled beside me with the butter melting slowly. It sizzled and crackled even more when I plopped down a piece of bread. I ate the toast with syrup though I would have liked to shower it with powdered sugar. Powdered sugar is such a beautiful decoration.  It hides the burnt section of a pan of brownies, and brings out the red in a strawberry shortcake.  At work, January sometimes sprinkles her chocolate chip banana muffins with powdered sugar. The syrup proved to be a good sweetener. Nope, eating toast didn't take me to France among the strange and foreign foods. Then again I've never been there so I wouldn't know if it did or didn't.  Perhaps it did and if so, France smells delicious and tastes even better.