The Hug of a Home
french toast sliced memories harden on the counter waiting to soak in the sweetness of your next arrival. when our bodies soften like sponges we sink into our past selves until delirium forces us to bed where fondness marinates Love saturates ‘til my dripping body wakes me bakes me so we never dissolve.
Each time I’ve served french toast in the past few years I’ve wondered if there’s a feeling I’m trying to chase by doing so. Or if I’m feeling a feeling that is making me do so. I’ve questioned whether the feeling is real or whether I’m forcing it to exist.
I started making french toast with my dad in elementary school on 100% whole wheat Freihofer’s bread that my parents would buy in bulk and store in our freezer. Sometimes the slices would still be frozen as I ripped them from their loaf. On the weekends in 5th grade I would wake up with my stomach churning from the smell of rolled oats sitting on the stovetop that my dad had prepared hours prior. I was finally tall enough to rifle through the cabinets and would search for cinnamon, vanilla extract, and sugar. We didn’t use the ingredients for much else so sometimes I’d have to go outside into his catering kitchen and knock down the tall red-lidded container of cinnamon that was kept high on a stainless steel shelf.
My french toast never came out right but it was nothing that our sugar-free “maple syrup” couldn’t fix. Each slice competed for who had the longest trailing tail of egg as I was too young to discern that I hadn’t whisked enough. Or had used too many eggs. Actually, I still don’t know. I didn’t have access to a recipe so I simply followed the steps my dad had shown me a few times. Bowl. Milk. Egg(s). Cinnamon. Sugar. Vanilla Extract - JUST A SPLASH, STEPHANIE!!! Whisk. Press, soak, flip, soak. Straight to the pan. Sizzle. Flip. Plate. French toast!
French toast comforted me as I ate it on Sunday mornings in my jammies watching cartoons. Nowhere to go and nowhere to be until early afternoon when our parents would scurry us out of the house to soccer or the grandparents or simply to scold us for not doing our chores. It was warm, slow, and let my body extend it’s slumber until the Sunday Scaries hit our household.
On a normal weekend, french toast was a tool for me to learn how to feed myself and the family. But on a special weekend, approximately once or twice a year, it was my dad’s labor of love. I remember the first time he served real french bread for breakfast. I had seen it a few times toasted with garlic butter, served on the side of mussels and pasta (also a special treat for visiting guests). But that french bread was so hard that it would cut the roof of my mouth unless my hand mimicked his as it cleaned his bowl, soaking up specks of the sea.
This time it was caramel colored and maintained its’ structure despite still being soft. His and my Aunts giggles woke up me, her eyes swollen either from allergies, sleeping on the sofa-bed, or simply from being a middle-aged woman. Her joy and love still beamed while her vocal cords warmed up from their slumber. She probably would’ve slept in if it weren’t for the sofa-bed being right next to the kitchen and my dad’s urgency to put breakfast on the table by 7am daily.
My dad plopped several more slices on the mountain that had already formed on a serving plate. This act became routine. Those weekends in which we had a special guest the house would both come alive and calm down. All of us kids would gather on the couch fighting for out Aunt’s attention. Like the crust of the baked bread, the abrasive fabric of the blue and white gingham couch felt soothing on my skin. The house was warm. The yellow walls radiated heat. The lights, candles, and fireplace glowed. With four kids the house normally felt chaotic and tense as if the walls would burst from its frame at any moment, but on those weekends they gently held us together. The cinnamon-laced heat coming from the oven closed in on us, cradling us like arms.
Now when my body feels that warmth with another, it can’t help but materialize it on a plate so we can savor the feeling before their departure. Since I was a teen it’s become a tradition for sleepovers, new apartments, homesickness, and weekends away. It symbolizes that home is not a place but people who make you feel warm and lifted and old and new.
I’ve found that feeling again with every new lover. Arms wrapped around my body as we can’t help but wake up early, yet need an hour to rise from bed. I just want them to feel what I feel when they enter my home. So I cut french bread into thick slices and let it sit on the counter for a few days. Between sweet nothings, sweet touchings, and sweet slumbers, I find a moment to sneak into the kitchen and quickly whisk together eggs, milk, cinnamon, vanilla, nutmeg, sugar, and maybe some ground cloves. The slices get pressed into the marinade on both sides, then I cover the container and put it in the fridge for the night.
We’ll soak in sweetness and spices just the same. And in the morning I’ll swiftly make coffee, pop the slices in the oven and let it bake as we slowly rise. When we make our way to the kitchen, the oven air greets us with a warm hug to soften our muscles for the day. A breath of warm vanilla and cinnamon sinks us into our bodies. Each bite hugs my heart. I hope it hugs theirs just the same.
Each time I’ve served french toast to a new person I’ve wondered if I’m making a mistake by serving love to someone who might just be passing through. But isn’t that life? Are they really just a visitor when they make your house feel like a home? Everyone we love comes in and out of our lives. I’m happy to keep soaking in the love we share with others so it never feels like they’re just passing through.