So the last time I posted something on this blog was back in May. I treated you to some story about how after a month of lazy bumming I will now post regularly. I obviously lied. To my defense, what has happened in the past months can only be characterized as me falling into a black hole. You know… time warp. It happens to all of us periodically. Some of us realize that they’ve been black-holed after five months and others realize this after fifty years. What happens then, you may ask. Well… Option 1: You crawl back into your black hole. Depression ensues, followed by amateur philosophizing about the nature of time and men… or Option 2: You decide to fight against the black hole. In the immortal words of Bridget Jones, you choose vodka and Chaka Khan. Or in my case, you make French toast for breakfast. Delicious, fluffy, cinnamon-scented, black-hole-combating French Toast to be precise. The announcement that I will be making French Toast has been met with some resistance from the husband, who promptly announced that he hates French Toast and if I decide to make it after all, it should be without cinnamon because he hates cinnamon. This later got reduced to the demand of not putting cinnamon on his share (which is kind of perplexing, because after he announced that he hates French toast, I kind of assumed that he wouldn’t have any at all and the black-hole French toast will be mine and only mine). In any case, husband’s objections have been promptly ignored on both counts. I have been taught from experience that when he claims to hate innocent foods such as pancakes or lentils or French toast, it soon turns out that the opposite is the case… as evidenced by the mhmmm mhmmm sound he makes while eating. This time was no exception.

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