I’m just going to start with the recipe at the top so WordPress doesn’t tease my blog with a triggering photo of my creepy basement.
I think the last post’s teaser photo was enough to make everyone bite down on their pillows and scream. Sorry about that.
To make up for that, here’s a picture of some pretty ham & cheese French toast for dinner.
Allright, listen, I’m not a food stylist.
The secret is in the egg wash. Use 1 egg per 2 slices of bread, mix with 1-2 T of WHOLE milk, or more if you’re sassy and you bought thick bakery bread or Texas toast. I can’t fault you for that. Throw in some cinnamon and — this is the best part — a couple drops of pure vanilla extract. Whisk. Then, just coat your bread. Don’t leave it in there to marinate; this isn’t a Jersey Shore hot tub.
NOT THAT I WOULD KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT THOSE PEOPLE.
And here is the secret to perfect French toast in your stainless steel pan: spray it generously, or coat with avocado oil or coconut oil (or something else with a high smoking point), and bring it up to medium heat.
Or, there’s always butter. I think we’ve finally gotten wise to the backwards 1980s way of thinking that our cooking methods should be low fat, right? God made butter because he loves us and wants us to be happy. I’m also going to tell you to get that canola or vegetable oil out of my kitchen, unless you’re using it in my 200-year-old dog’s food.
Let each slice cook on each side for exactly 1 min. 20 seconds and it will be PERFECT. Then just assemble it like you would a sandwich — meat and cheese, peanut butter and banana, Nutella, whatever. And pretty soon you’re out of bread because your loved ones will be asking for thirds, but who cares if there’s no bread on a Saturday.
Just in case you’re thinking, “But… this isn’t paleo. Why is she eating bread?” This was for the kids, not me. I’m at the point where I don’t really miss bread all that much and it doesn’t bother me to watch my kids eat bread. Eating bread does not make me feel good, so, no big whoop.
It’s really a stretch to call it a recipe, but I’m bringing it up now because BFD makes me happy when the temperatures drop.
BFD = breakfast for dinner; I don’t know why, but it feels more fun than the drudgery of cooking DINNER.
Or, “supper,” if you’re in the Midwest. I think? I can’t keep it all straight anymore. Just don’t be mad when I call brunch “elevensies.”
I’m so surprised my evening was such a success because now I am going to show how how my morning went yesterday.
First, water in the basement.
Thanks, Hurricane Michael. Sorry for the far away picture but if you think I’m going to go down into the Serial Killer Room for a close-up shot, you are irreparably unknown to me.
And then, because water is my nemesis this week, I spilled a whole cup of it right onto the computer surge protector.
Despite somehow safely unplugging it and everything connected to it without zapping myself into a coma, this demon-possessed black box continued to behave much like a Furbee (also demonic) by emitting a long, continuous beep ALL DAY.
At some point my neighbor came over, looked at me like she wondered how I manage to dress myself every morning, and pulled the giant car-like battery out of the black box thing to make the noise stop — who knew I could just DO that?
If you pray, please do so, that my stupid human tricks did not completely fry the circuitry.
We’ll find out in a couple of days if we need a new one.
In the meantime I’ll be on the porch. Which leads me to think… my ridiculous little accident is somehow a vast shadow conspiracy to get me outside.
OK, then. Well played, Deep State.