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juushikaThis morning, Devon and I went over to my parents's for Sunday breakfast. Papa made French toast, which is probably my favorite of his breakfast dishes. As soon as we arrived he sent us off again to go pick up maple syrup at Trader Joe's, because he'd just discovered we were out at the house. The store had bottles of spiced apple cider right at the entrance, which I've been craving since autumn began—so Dev and I picked up a bottle of that, too.
I heated a few cups of cider in a sauce pan until steaming, and ladled it out into mugs. It was the Trader Joe's brand, thick and cloudy and well spiced—flavorful but not heavy-handed—and smelled fantastic warm. We served the French toast (made with challah bread—and this is why Papa's French toast and pancakes have spoiled me for all French toast and pancakes forever: he uses tweaked recipes which are sufficiently unique and certain delicious enough that nothing else will ever live up to them) with homemade whipped cream and warmed maple syrup. And it was lovely.
That little touch made it, that bit of warm cider to scent the kitchen and steam beautifully in a mug. I tend to have troubles with events because the nostalgic longing of my imagination rarely finds it way into the real world—sometimes because we just never get around to decorations and celebrations, to all of the fuss of an event; sometimes because no matter all the trimmings, the heart of it seems to be lacking. Quixotic daydreams about the perfect misty Halloween and the perfect warm, sweater-swathed holiday season are awfully hard to live up to, after all, and the more events that pass by as barely blips on the radar, the less motivated I feel to try to recapture or create the spirit of things. But that warm cider was just a touch enough, something warm and lovely, something to be shared, something special but simple, that it made all the difference.
We had rain until noon, and as we sat at the table eating and talking the wind came up something furious, knocking off leaves enough that for a moment I thought there was hail. My father cleaned the summer's dust from all the windows yesterday and when he finished, they decided to leave the window screens off to enjoy all the natural, unfiltered light that they let through (and because they won't be opening the windows much now that we've entered the season of constant rain). The dining room is attached to the kitchen, where the last of the cider cooled in the pot; it has sliding glass doors on one wall and a large window on the other, and that light did stream through, rain-dimmed and mellow. Everything smelled of maple and cinnamon and apple.
It was wonderful.
I heated a few cups of cider in a sauce pan until steaming, and ladled it out into mugs. It was the Trader Joe's brand, thick and cloudy and well spiced—flavorful but not heavy-handed—and smelled fantastic warm. We served the French toast (made with challah bread—and this is why Papa's French toast and pancakes have spoiled me for all French toast and pancakes forever: he uses tweaked recipes which are sufficiently unique and certain delicious enough that nothing else will ever live up to them) with homemade whipped cream and warmed maple syrup. And it was lovely.
That little touch made it, that bit of warm cider to scent the kitchen and steam beautifully in a mug. I tend to have troubles with events because the nostalgic longing of my imagination rarely finds it way into the real world—sometimes because we just never get around to decorations and celebrations, to all of the fuss of an event; sometimes because no matter all the trimmings, the heart of it seems to be lacking. Quixotic daydreams about the perfect misty Halloween and the perfect warm, sweater-swathed holiday season are awfully hard to live up to, after all, and the more events that pass by as barely blips on the radar, the less motivated I feel to try to recapture or create the spirit of things. But that warm cider was just a touch enough, something warm and lovely, something to be shared, something special but simple, that it made all the difference.
We had rain until noon, and as we sat at the table eating and talking the wind came up something furious, knocking off leaves enough that for a moment I thought there was hail. My father cleaned the summer's dust from all the windows yesterday and when he finished, they decided to leave the window screens off to enjoy all the natural, unfiltered light that they let through (and because they won't be opening the windows much now that we've entered the season of constant rain). The dining room is attached to the kitchen, where the last of the cider cooled in the pot; it has sliding glass doors on one wall and a large window on the other, and that light did stream through, rain-dimmed and mellow. Everything smelled of maple and cinnamon and apple.
It was wonderful.
