Yesterday morning I made French toast. Mixed a couple of eggs with (whole) milk and a generous dollop of vanilla. Let the bread soak and saturate before putting it on the cast iron griddle I’ve had for 50 years. (The griddle is as good as it was then, and good for another fifty, or 150, if I can get one of my kids or grandkids hooked on iron.)
I buttered the toast and flooded it with powdered sugar and fresh lime juice—and I ate.
And it occurred to me that the French toast tasted as good as it ever had, better than it did when I was 30 years old and shoveling food into a mouth damaged by pipe heat and smoke, all the while hustling myself and family to get stuff packed for the ski run.
This post could be about taking pleasure in simple things. About the pleasures of being in a warm home and being able to take care of myself. Or about the privilege that I enjoy with the eggs, milk, and bread it takes to make French toast—and having an ample and full belly.
I could get nostalgic about kids at home and skiing on Sundays. Or tear up with the mistakes I’ve made that seem to get shuttled down the generations. Or dissolve with the new growing of Covid and the facts of family members and friends who are, even as I write this, sick with it.
It’s where we are, where I am. And maybe the simple lesson of this writing exercise today is to stay the course, support the son who is sick and the grandson who came home from his new job and life in nearby La Grande to do laundry and eat grandpa-cooked food—curry last night, sourdough pancakes this morning.
I’ll keep working at the Josephy Center, keep writing blog posts and newspaper columns, keep advocating for causes I’ve taken on and grown with, and keep wearing my mask and pushing those close to me to vaccinate and boost. And count myself lucky to be doing it all.
Wishing you all well too in this crazy, fractured, and yet still familiar world.
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