A Shocking Development: Sunday Morning French Toast

I don’t want to brag, but yesterday morning I made French toast. On a whim. From scratch, using a recipe I spontaneously found on weelicious. While my husband—fearless cook and all-around unflappable father—was out of town. P. sat on the counter in her pajamas and helped me crack two eggs into the bowl and whisk them together with cinnamon, honey, milk, and almond milk. I didn't panic when I had to pluck eggshell bits out of the batter (my fault, not hers) but simply carried on, improvising cheerfully, channeling Steve. Kids are uncanny conduits of our emotions, as I'm starting to figure out, but P. didn't bat on eye. She just chewed on a chunk of semi-stale Ciabatta and watched studiously as I dunked half a dozen pieces in the batter and lay them casually in the pan, as though I did this every Sunday morning, as though it wasn’t some supreme feat to make a hot breakfast out of thin air. Meanwhile, M wheeled around in her little activity go-cart, banging into cabinets and dogs like a drunken underage driver, squeaking her giraffe and drooling with amazement. (Either that, or else she was teething.) For the first time since I started trying to learn to cook, I was actually relaxed in the kitchen. A shocking development! Everything about the scene felt freakishly sane and normal and, dare I say, easy. The French toast was crispy on the outside and soft but not soggy on the inside, just the way I like it, and as the three of us sat down to eat our breakfast, everything felt just about right. As they say, fake it 'til you make it.