French Toast, Betty-style.

My mother-in-law’s (Betty’s) specialty.

Hang on. I should clarify. It’s her specialty in the same way that making most things in the kitchen is her specialty. Like her huckleberry pie, or any of a zillion other meals she has made over the years.

She makes the best French Toast. No idea how she does it, but it is definitely better than mine. Admittedly, not much of a bar to clear, but I have to make some sort of comparison. Great with raspberries, too. Especially if they are out of her garden. Lots of raspberries.

Betty is one of those cooks who pulls a bit of this, some of that…

…and makes something spectacular.

Like all of her meals, the french toast benefits from this talent. She announced she was going to make breakfast – something we try to discourage her from doing, given that she did more than her fair share of cooking while raising 4 daughters, let alone feeding yours truly every time I came to visit for the last 25 years.

However, she insisted, and I wasn’t going to stop her. Nothing like a half-hearted “Oh, there is no need” to really cement the deal. Funny how we have these conventions.

But to the french toast. Perfectly cooked – perfect consistency, super hot and exactly the right surface upon which to pile a bunch of said raspberries and a bit of maple syrup.

The only drawback was that my hungry kids move faster than I do, and by the time I looked up all the ‘extra’ pieces were long since spoken for.

Next time we’re up I’ll see what I can do about getting her into the kitchen. I’m working on my speech now… “Oh, really, no, we couldn’t ask you… Are you sure? I’ll get the eggs…”