Oh, regarding making fresh toast--uh. My first time attempting it, I made something my boyfriend and I have referred to ever since as Monstrosity. I just looked at him and asked, "You remember Monstrosity, right?" to which he immediately replied yes, despite being in the middle of a video game. And despite this having happened more than five years ago now.
It was equal parts french toast and scrambled eggs, basically. Not...bad...but really weird. We ate all of it because it was college.
Just. French toast requires heftier bread than the 99c fare at Safeway. sweatdrop
Kendra: I'm hoping that I'll be able to keep it up tomorrow. I'm a third of the way through the book now.
Limit: Without math and science the world looks pretty good, look at little kids' perceptions.
Moya: I think everyone wants french toast.
Kendra: I want to see where yours is going.
And to motivate you I will share what I have on mine.
Stan wakes up early, he always does, he is a goat and leads a very busy life. His first thing to do is wake with the sun and greet it with the rooster, who in Stan's wise billy goat opinion is a blind old cook who needs to learn how to tell time instead of crowing at every odd hour of the night. Stan lets out a long bleat as the familiar sound of the screen door slamming on the door frame alerts him to the master of the farm coming outside.
The tall bald man in flannel and overalls carries a basket laden with clothes that he takes a few minutes to hang on a drying line. Stan stares at the myriad of colors and the cloth that flaps in the breeze, their movements are erratic and at the same time filled with a rhythmic and hypnotic pattern and oh how they taunt him.
"Hello Stanley." Francis says as he walks past his paddock with a basket that will hold eggs as fur free as his head.
Stan responds with his goat way his preferred shortened form of "Stan" but Francis does not speak goat so Stan is left to continue to perpetually correct him. Francis keeps walking and Stan turns his attention to the dew covered grass that is still cool in the early morning, he grows bored quickly and turns his attention to the clothes on the drying line.
It is little effort to headbutt the loose boards and wiggle and squirm his way out of the short-clipped-grass area and make his way to the large billowing goat-level laundry. It takes a few tries but he manages to latch onto the cloth and begin to chew, and chew, and chew. The wind catches the mass of the sheet he is chewing on and pulls it uncomfortably in his mouth, he lets it go as his goat brain spots a tantalizing sock with bright bands of color and a haphazardly applied clothes pin.
He plots daintily through the grass and plants his feet on a half overturned bucket to stretch, but it is not enough with his nubby goat legs and his stumpy goat neck to reach anywhere close the height of a sock. A sudden loss of balance and he is lying on his back with the bucket on his head. He bleets and it echos but as he rights himself the bucket is dislodged. The sock continues to flap like the laundry day flag it is, and Stan looks around the grassy lawn for something to climb on.
The method has worked for him in the past but it is clear that Stan has wised up and cleared everything but the bucket from the area. The wind picks up and brings with it the scent of wet wool and soap, in frustration he runs into the wooden post that holds his sock out of reach. The line wobbles as the clothing catches the wind and the sock appears to slip from the clutches of its wooden prison. Stan rams the post again feeling satisfied with the solid clack of his horns against the wood. He looks up at the sock and watches as it catches a burst of wind and flies to the ground. He is on it fast and contentedly chewing it when Francis shows up out of nowhere to whisk the sock out of his mouth.
Francis calmly replaces the sock on the line, taking extra care to secure the wooden pin. "Come on Stanley back you go." Francis says as Stan is picked up and carried, much to his bleeting protests, back to the paddock. Francis sets him down and pats him on the head with a chuckle and a laugh, "At least the vet is on her way." He says as he takes a heavy log and places it on the other side of the loose board, securing it, and consequently eliminating his current route of escape.
Stan stares at Francis and tells him of his indignation as he walks away. He is a goat after all and well aware his master treats him the same no matter what he says.
Edit: Wow that was a little longer than I thought it was.
Okay guys, I'd reply to you all individually, but my brain has ceased being able to form coherent tangents anymore. Meaning I'm going to go into "lurk mode" until I go to sleep, which won't be long off.
So I'm just going to go ahead and say goodnight now. Goodnight, Lovies!
Moya
Egads. Well, I'll have to make sure my bread is hefty enough. sweatdrop
Yeah, an old, sickly man and a plain farmer woman against a team of powerful magic users. Definitely not an end-well scenario, haha.
