The first thing I ever learned how to cook was French toast.  If I remember clearly, I learned how to make this when I was jumping on my parents bed…as they were sleeping.  And in an attempt to get just 15 more minutes of shut-eye, my dad suggested that I make French toast.  I stopped jumping.  He explained.  I listened.  And then ran to the kitchen. I imagine I was probably wearing my huuuge Tasmanian Devil t-shirt I always slept in. And I probably pulled one of those country-style chairs we had in the dining room, and positioned it up against the counter so I could reach. I’m also gonna assume that I made a gigantic mess.  I think I was pretty good at that back then.  And I’m positive that when I was all done and my parents ate it, they smiled and said it was good because they sorta had to.  You don’t really tell your eight-year-old kid their French toast is gross. This recipe is waaay different.  I’ve grown up…not sure if you’ve noticed. For one, my eight-year-old version of French toast had egg shells in it.  I’ll bet on that. I wasn’t a good egg cracker. …

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