On Sunday morning, impelled by some vague desire to both recapture lost youth and grow up a bit into the bargain, I made an executive decision to make some French toast. I bought some bacon, eggs, a none-less-healthy Mother’s Pride plain loaf and an Observer. The basic idea of a civilised, cooked breakfast avec lefty newspaper covered the growing up part of the equation (and oddly is something I almost never do), while the artery-hardening mix of bacon and plain loaf harked back to childhood days of pushing the token fried tomatoes to one side to get to the good shit.
Of course I made rather a meal of it and eventually sat down to some rubbery French toast that managed to be simultaneously over- and under-cooked, a cup of burnt coffee and a couple of rashers of uninspiring supermarket bacon, but y’know, the thought was there.
Ash ate cereal and yoghurt. Hippie!
On Monday night Coba Fynn – shambling behemoth of rock that it is – got together for the second rehearsal for our Second Coming. Doug and I were so late that David and Charlie went to the pub in our absence, but my word: once we were plugged in and warmed up, you could palpably feel the rock. After you sifted through the cacophonous layers of ear-splitting noise, that is. Roll on December! I predict a Christmas number one.
P.S. Jez’ sister Cis (yes, I too thought she was everyone’s sister for a while) has put a minor masterpiece of a video up on YouTube. Wilfred the dog: il espère. Il espère.
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Tricks with French Toast– slightly stale bread, don’t leave the bread in the egg mixture too long, butter in the pan, Not. Too. Hot. If you come over here some morning this weekend you can have a master-class.
The first time I did it I fucked up so badly that the dogs wouldn’t even eat it. They honestly looked up at me and were like, ‘Honestly, child– you think we are so desperate for human food that we would eat something that is burnt black on the outside and oozes on the inside? It reminds us of a popped plague bubo. We are now going to root through the trash can and lick the empty cat food cans.’ But one can move past a failed FT attempt.
I knew you’d come through with the FT guidance :) Next time I attempt a civilised breakfast I shall be all over the fried bread angle.