Someone told me once that people smell French toast just before they have a stroke. (Or maybe it's just toast they smell but my brain turned it into FRENCH toast because let's be serious, if I'm going to smell something while I'm going toward the light, it's going to be dipped in an egg mixture that is speckled with cinnamon and nutmeg and flavored with vanilla.)
So this morning, when I meandered out to the kitchen to turn on the coffee pot, I was a little concerned that my house smelled like, well... French toast.
Hmmmm, I thought.
I wiggled my nose, opened my mouth, blinked my eyes and waved both hands.... check, check, check and check! Everything was working as it was supposed to, nothing (new) was drooping... but I could still smell French toast.
Since Mr. Awesome hasn't been home in a while (which I'm trying not to take personally... did I offend him somehow? Does he get tired of hearing Maisy crashing and banging across the floor over his head? Is Dan's relentless snoring seeping down into his apartment and causing him to lose sleep?) I knew it couldn't be HIM cooking the French toast...
I puttered around while the coffee was brewing and eventually opened the fridge to get out the creamer, and VOILA! There, sitting in the fridge, was a plate with four pieces of French toast on it.
Okay, I have a confession... After not sleeping for three days, I got back together with Ambien. I didn't want to say anything, because let's face it... I'm a little ashamed. There I'd made that big speech and said we'd go our separate ways and three days later, I was blissfully sound asleep with Ambien whispering sweet nothings into my ear.
Apparently, last night Ambien was whispering that French toast sounded really, really good.
I also made something out of canned pumpkin that I'm afraid to taste because I have no idea what I put into it. It smells good, but yeah... not so sure I want to go there.
Possibly I meant to put it on the French toast, which I never got around to eating.
The kitchen was clean, the dishes were all put neatly into the dish washer, there was literally NO EVIDENCE of a French toast making party.
When Dan got out of the shower, sitting on the table was a nice, warm plate of French toast with warm maple syrup.
"You made me French toast?" he asked happily...
"Yep!" I answered.
Hey... he didn't ask WHEN I made it...