Occasionally we eat breakfast for dinner. Usually because I can't think of anything else to eat or just want to do something fast. Today was one of those days. Before a trip to the grocery store for some eggs (and 75 dollars worth of other items that we were in need of), we decided to have french toast. I hadn't had it in a long time and it sounded like a good solution to the looming dinner problem (yes, to me it is a problem) of the night. When we got home with our bags of food, Justin asked me if I would cook the french toast, so he could study. Fair enough. And besides, french toast is like the easiest thing to make.
I got to work.
The eggs were mixed, complete with sprinkle of cinnamon, the pan was hot with a light coating of Pam.
In went the first slice.
There turned out to be only enough room for one at a time, but I was in no rush. As it started to brown I realized it was still soggy. I turned the heat up a little and pulled it off after a moment longer on the stove.
In went the second slice.
Oops, didn't spray the pan. (We don't have non-stick pans.) Oh well, it will be fine.
To my dismay, the remains of the first attempt started to burn in the pan that now must have been much hotter, and so did my second slice. I began pealing the corners up with the spatula, which I realized a few seconds later was melting right off into my pan! It started to smell like burnt everything so I pulled the whole pan off the heat. As I swung around toward the sink the pan brushed up against the plastic bread bag which immediately clung and melted to the bottom of the pan. At that point I knew that I was not going to save this.
And so did Justin, because he got up off the couch and came to the rescue. He got another pan and finished the french toast while I proceeded to scrape melted spatula and wallow in self pity. I can't even make french toast! I used to make it all the time as a child. A child! Really. Am I now digressing in my cooking abilities? I didn't think I could get any worse. Apparently I can, and the french toast is proof.
Thank you to my husband who is patient when I manage to let things like this happen. . . And for blaming in all on Aunt Flow. His french toast was wonderful by the way. And he is now scraping the remains of the bread bag off our pan while I sit here, still puzzling (and laughing inside) over this whole thing.
