Sometimes we all feel out of place even if we go somewhere of which we’re sure we’ll fit in this time. That people will totally “get” you, understand you, like the same mélange of music, think it’s cool you take your coffee with a bit of cinnamon sugar rather than cream and totally get the fact that you rarely finish a book because you’d rather learn something new than finish something for good.
Unfortunately, I’ve come to conclude that while this place sounds real good on paper, it might not exist all of the time
Even if you’ve found it, this dream place might not last either because the people could change or you may change or maybe a little bit of both or, you know, the place gets hit by a random space rock that destroys most of the town and even though the people are fine everyone has to move away anyways for fear of space bugs. It could happen.
Coming to Switzerland did a little of this for me I think. While not in a bad way, all I wanted to do was leave the States for a long, long while. Maybe I read too much and didn’t finish enough books to realize that adventure doesn’t necessarily mean, well, permanence. I thought in coming here I would leave my weird American roots behind for good, I’d learn to pronounce a few things correctly and drop my occasional Texan drawl, I’d escape past events I wasn’t proud of or people I still hadn’t fully forgiven, and most importantly, I’d cook all these new crazy, beautiful dishes with my spare time because of my new “European” way of living. So posh and pensive, right?
All of this is actually hilarious because since I’ve been here, the only thing that’s been on my mind more than some great ribeye with a side of mashed potatoes or someone that’ll talk about baseball with me is my mom’s French Toast.
Growing up, this was my personal breakfast of champions. I could take on anything with a belly full of French Toast– tests over fractions and decimals, piano recitals, soccer games. I could go to a friend’s house and have their mom’s French Toast or try to order it in a restaurant but of course it wouldn’t be the same because it wasn’t my mamas.
Don’t get me wrong– I absolutely love it here. I love that great skiing is just a train ride away, the history, the cool cobblestoned streets and window shutters, the fact that people in their cars actually stop for pedestrians at cross walks and that freshly baked bread is a stone’s throw away.
But sometimes it takes leaving home to figure out exactly where it is and the people that make it up. And while the French Toast I make over here is pretty good, it’ll never compare to that delicious breakfast dripping with maple syrup and cinnamon that can only be found in my mama’s kitchen.
Mama Smith’s French Toast
- 4 eggs
- 2/3 cup milk (non-dariy works fine!)
- 2 teaspoons of cinnamon
- 8 thick slices of whole wheat bread
- 1 teaspoon sugar
- 2 teaspoons butter
- butter, maple syrup, powdered sugar, and extra cinnamon to serve
1. Whisk together the eggs, milk, cinnamon and sugar in a medium sized bowl. When finished, pour the mixture into a shallow bowl or container (my mom always used long, rectangular Tupperware for better bread coverage)
2. Melt butter over a large skillet on medium high heat. Dip each slice of bread into the egg mixture, for a few seconds on each side and add to the skillet. Cook until lightly brown on both sides, flipping the bread when necessary.
3. Serve with ample amount of maple syrup, powdered sugar, cinnamon and, of course, love!
Yield: Serves 4-6