Syruppy Days

Almost every Sunday morning for the past two years, I have made French toast. Standby ingredients: a big loaf of Brioche bread from our beloved local bakery, Avalon; eggs from J&M Farm at Easter Market; a half gallon Calder Dairy milk; and a big jug of Michigan maple syrup. I have grown to love the routine of it: slicing the loaf of bread, cutting the strawberries, pouring the syrup in a little white pitcher, the anticipation of waiting for the griddle to warm while eager bodies dance around my shuffle in the kitchen. I love knowing that they’ll always remember the taste—fluffy, gooey chunks of sweet bread—like syrup-drenched memories of their childhood. The scene is always the same: Ryan’s ipod fills the background, my paper spreads across the floor in the living room, a whisk sticks to the counter beside a carton of empty egg shells.

It’s not even Tuesday before Cass starts asking how many days until we make French toast. He’s big enough now to crack all the eggs, and a couple weeks ago, we worked on his technique—pulling up and apart simultaneously from both ends to avoid pieces of shell in the mixture. We talk about where all the food comes from, while he sprinkles the cinnamon. Today he ate three pieces.