I am soggy with Portland’s December rain. My umbrella broke yesterday and I have been splashing around ever since.
In case you haven’t heard, there are people swimming in the streets in massive, flooded puddles.
Mornings are brutal to get up and face — the air is damp and the rain is cold. But there is something nice about the feel and the sound, provided you can drag yourself out bed in the morning.
I have relied heavily on French Toast these past few days to get me by. Hearty, warm and sweet, it is enough to pull my weary figure out of my cozy bed and onto the cold floors.
(Not only me, it would seem… there are those that show up on my doorstep before work in the morning sniffing the air excitedly for breakfast before I’m even out of my pajamas.)
It has also been a practice in gratitude. Where I am apt to worry and complain and stress out about whatever step is next, I forget to be grateful for where I am and how much I have already been blessed.
Even in the tiniest circumstances. Like the fact I can cook myself breakfast in the morning.
It is one of those rare occurrences where I find myself exceedingly grateful for stale bread.
Now I am aware this is my second post on French bread. It is more or less the same recipe, just altered to fit my current grocery-less status.
Stale bread. Eggs. Milk. A dash of vanilla. Cinnamon sugar.
And half of a Harry & David gold-wrapped pear from a Thanksgiving basket. Heaven forbid I neglect fruit as a part of the day’s most important meal!
Someday soon I will break out of my French Toast rut, but for now, I am happy listening to Bing Crosby crooning carols from the radio while butter sizzles in the pan.
If there ever were a season to emanate warmth and gratitude, this is certainly it.
Break out the holiday plates! It’s time for a hot breakfast and some Christmas cheer.