Mmm-mmm good. French toast. Picture it ... thick sliced with the perfect batter, fried golden brown and covered in butter and warm syrup ... red skinned fried potatoes and onions on the side. Fresh muffins and hot rich coffee with cream. We Southerners know how to eat.
Michael and I met our friends this morning for breakfast. I love the heathen hour. That Sunday morning time between 10 and noon, before the church people let out and crowd the restaurants with screaming babies and kids.
Brunch with friends on a warm, sunny, Sunday. Of course we had to get home right afterward - NFL football starts today. There are few Southern men that can't be in front of the TV during football season. But that's okay - I'll pop in from time to time, get a few scores, yell "hold 'em!" or "pass the ball!" for effect, and find out where my husband and 76-year-old mother-in-law stands in the family football pool.
The woman loves football more than most women I know! Of course, I'd venture to say she not like most 76-year-olds you know. She loves to watch the Gaither's sing gospel on TV, wiping her eyes while they sing What A Friend We Have In Jesus. Then she stands, strolls to the sliding glass doors, lights her cigarette (after all it's been five minutes, since her last one), and as she opens the blinds to look at the outdoor thermometer she says matter-of-fact, "I wonder what the temperature is on my dick?" (She means deck.) What do you expect from a woman whose favorite word is the F word? There's never a dull moment around my house. She is who she is, loves her family, pulls no punches, and doesn't give a damn what people think.
I love her. I hope to be just like her when I grow up.
Okay, so I'm rambling today ... here's to a lovely sunny day with a nip of fall in the air.
By the way, we all had french toast except Dena, but I'm having what she had next time - Salmon Benedict!
Blessings to you and yours.