Dear Elli,
I hate French toast. Your father thinks I suffer from a psychological condition. He told me this morning while he was making French toast for you and himself. He knows better than to make any French toast for me. Because I will throw it in the trash.
I'm not a big breakfast person to begin with. I'm good with a banana or a granola bar. That's about as dynamic as I get with breakfast. I don't consider it important to eat a full-blown meal in the morning. I'm not a farmer plowing fields at 8:00AM. I sit at a desk for a living. The most strenuous work I perform is my morning trek to the cafeteria for coffee.
And French toast reminds me of being broke. Your father and I ate that crap all the time back in the day. For dinner. I don't like breakfast for dinner. I didn't like it then, and I don't like it now. But now I have a choice. And my choice is to throw it in the trash. Because I hate French toast. I also hate Hamburger Helper and Spaghetti-o's. The two other staples of our former diets. They are also likely to hit the bottom of the waste basket in this house.
But I know you like French toast. I respect that. And you can have it with your father. I will eat the bacon. And a granola bar. But not the French toast. Because I suffer from a psychological condition. I hate French toast.
I love you, even though you eat French toast.
Mom
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