Elijah has spent Christmases in Florida at Cocoa Beach ever since the incident on Christmas Eve when he was 17 that led him to despise the holiday with the desire to wipe away all memories and thoughts of the dreadful night 5 years ago. He's an aspi...
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Homemade stuffed french toast was my special sweet treat. I only ever had it on special occasions, but I'd woken up feeling zesty, if you will. Feeling like I deserved something sweet, with a few savory sides. Applewood bacon and a breakfast potato hash with eggs and veggies. I brewed some coffee on the stove with this little French press I'd bought at a thrift store the other day, desiring something other than the hotel coffee, or the little mini machine that was fixed in the room. I felt extravagantly more myself this morning, craving the peace of cooking something I knew would set my day off on the right note.
The scoreboard was 75-70, with me ahead by the mere 5 points. River gave us a lot of points for the secret Santa because he was thrilled when I told him, and sent him a few images of the presents Elijah and I were holding in front of the giant Christmas tree on the pier yesterday. He almost accused us of being secret Christmas-lovers now, but I knew that wasn't near the truth. I was just trying to win. And to be honest, I enjoyed the gift-giving yesterday. I needed to call my siblings, despite the hesitance of how much I'd been ignoring them in lieu of what I'd heard the last time we spoke. It wasn't fair to blame them for trying to keep me in the loop when it came to my mother and her weird obsession with my ex. It was bullshit. But not their fault.
For now, I focused on the food.
The French toast was made with a brioche loaf I'd picked up at a cute bakery I found on the pier the other day, and I was stuffing it with a classic whipped cream cheese mixture with brown sugar. I was going to make a raspberry compote to go on top, which I was going to start right after I popped the toast into the oven.
The bacon was on the stove, and I was working on whisking together my eggs to scramble them with the potatoes and veggies I'd chopped for the hash, seasoning everything together in a big bowl. My stomach was grumbling, and I wanted to have a feast right now, but half of cooking well was cooking with patience, letting the food take its time to get where it needed to be to be gorgeous and delicious. I could be severely impatient in a lot of areas of my life, but cooking wasn't one of those. It was one of those therapeutic places I could escape and take my time with each and every dish, every ingredient, to make it as good as it could be. Even working in kitchens where there was constant stress and annoying ass rude bosses, I was able to take my deep breaths, and put every bit of my heart into what I was cooking. Nothing I made was half-assed or rushed. Even when I was just making something for myself.
As I was pouring myself my first cup of coffee, a loud knocking started at the door of my room, followed by the sound of River's muffled voice:
"Girl! GIRL! I can smell that shit, open it up! It's your favorite! It's ME! RIVERRR!"
So much for peace and quiet.
I went to open the door, and River burst through, immediately making his way to the kitchen, looking at everything like a wide-eyed child.
