Decadence

I want to make French Toast.

Not just any kind of French Toast.

Not just the dip-the-store-bought-bread-in-egg-and-fry-then-coat-with-Mrs.-Butterworth-syrup kind.

Although that kind of French Toast is delightful, comforting, and oh-so-good on a Saturday morning. Brings back lovely childhood memories and warm fuzzy feelings of home.

Today I'm talking gourmet French Toast. True Decadence.

I want to make my own homemade bread. Then slice it up into inch-thick slices. Make a mixture of egg, cinnamon and cream and dredge the bread through the liquid 'til it's completely soaked in the eggy goodness. Then fry in an overly-buttery, hot pan 'til the outside of the Toast is crispy but not burnt and the inside is warm, cooked-through, and melts in your mouth.

But then, the crowning glory.

Between my two beautiful, perfectly cooked pieces of French Toast I want to slather a layer of slightly sweetened Marscapone Cheese. And then, to finish it off, a Strawberry and Blueberry Compote still warm from the pan that has reduced down so its sugary, syrupy sweetness is thick and slowly drizzles down the edges of my now-finished masterpiece.

Now *that's* what I call French Toast. Can you smell it? I think I can.

I want to make French Toast. And I want to make it now.

Too bad it's nearly midnight and time for bed. Time for sleep.

Au Revoir, Mes Amies.... may you have "sweet" dreams. I know I will.

~lk