It was an early Sunday morning and I had just baked half-wholemeal milk bread that I left to proof overnight in the fridge. Tope was with me in the kitchen when I brought the bread out from the oven and made the kitchen smell heavenly.

“Your babies”, he remarked.

“Yes! Aren’t they so pretty!”

I sliced the small loaf and it revealed a huge hollow dome at the top. I showed it to Tope and we both laughed.

“That’s how a good bread it supposed to look like”

I chopped up some strawberries and mixed it with cream cheese and spread it generously on a slice. Not bad, but it didn’t make my taste buds explode as I thought it would be. Maybe I was missing some sugar. I finished off the smaller loaf uneventfully.

I was close to getting full at that point, and it was a lot of carbs. I was debating whether or not to make French toast, as that was why I made the milk bread in the first place. Maybe I should just make some scrambled eggs to get my protein in?

I carefully tore open the larger loaf to see whether there were beautiful flakey tears that marked signs of good gluten development. And there they were! Pretty soft flaky strips. I cut a small piece and indicated to Tope.

“Here, try some. It would go really well with some butter.”

He picked up the piece and exclaimed,

“Wow! It’s so soft!”

“I know right! And it’s warm too.”

I did a little happy dance.

“Lower your voice, you’re gonna wake Fahim.”

He took out his Lurpak butter from the fridge and spread the butter generously on the little piece bread. And took his first bite.

I looked at him expectantly.

Thumbs up.

I cheered and did my second little happy dance.

“This is what they serve you in five star hotels. The soft warm bread, with a little dish of butter on the side.”

I smiled widely. That was an exaggerated compliment but who doesn’t like words sweet to the ears?

In the midst of mixing my egg and milk for scrambled eggs, I abruptly decided to go ahead and make French toast. I cut a thick middle slice and let it greedily soak up the rich egg-and-milk mixture. I threw some butter into my well-heated pan and then gently placed the heavily soaked slice onto it.

Sizzle sizzle!

One of the most satisfying sounds to hear. I lowered the heat and put the lid on to let the toast cook through evenly. A few seconds later, I flipped the toast and put the lid back on. After a few more flipping and checking that the colour was to my satisfaction, I transferred the hot toast from the pan to my cream-coloured ceramic plate. And drizzle golden syrup lazily all over it.

I took my phone out and snapped a few pictures of it. Then I cut the toast diagonally into two triangles to get a good look of the cross section.

Nicely cooked through, I mused.

I cut up a smaller piece and took a bite -

heavens exploded in my mouth.

“Omg this is so good - you need to try it!”

I cut a corner piece where it had more crispy edges and drizzled some more syrup over it for Tope. He tried it and gushed,

“Wow, I can’t believe eggs and bread can be so good!”

It was definitely the most decadent piece of French toast that I had ever made.

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