I'll order the French Toast

I woke up to the sound of my alarm clock reverberating throughout my room like it did on any other day at 7am. I woke in a state of disarray, which was credited to staying up watching the Dave Letterman show when I should have been in bed. The first thing I viewed through the crescent slits of my eyelids was the gloomy overcast day that awaited just on the other side of my bedroom window. I dragged myself out from underneath my bedsheets and placed my bare feet on the cold wood floor with the same sense of indolence that was usual for me at this time of day. Like I am sure is the case with many other, or at least some people, I find that my moods in the morning are heavily contingent on the weather. So this morning I was feeling especially grim, as accurately reflected the outside world. However, this feeling of despondency was thrown off of me as quick as my cotton pajamas when the smell of french toast crept underneath my door and into my nostrils. I have absolutely worshiped french toast for as long as I can remember. This remains something that not too many people know about me. It's not as if I am keeping it a secret, it is just that not all that many people give enough of a damn to care to find out. I have adored every type of french toast that I have ever come into contact with; banana bread toast, raspberry cheesecake toast, pumpkin toast, chocolate chip toast, peanut butter toast, butterscotch toast, cinnamon raison toast, ginger toast, almond toast, the list is virtually endless. There is, however, one type of french toast that I cannot enjoy, and that is blueberry french toast. 

For as long as I have loved french toast, I have been allergic to blueberries. I view blueberries as a virus, a disease. I see a healthy stack of french toast, and become appalled at the thought that someone is ruining, poisoning a perfectly good meal with the addition of those blue toxins. The only thing worse than seeing french toast spoiled by the accompaniment of blueberries is seeing that very dish in front of my face. But I learned not to have a fit about it, at least not in front of father. This I learned a couple of years back on the car ride home from Uncle Rudy's house upstate. We pulled into a rest stop with a cozy looking restaurant placed next to a gas station. As I read the sign "Doreen's Pancake House," I was incredulous to the very idea that we were actually stopping to get something to eat. "We are making decent enough time" father said, "but that doesn't mean we can afford to pussyfoot. Let's go, out of the car let's make this as quick as we can." The restaurant looked welcoming enough, despite the fact that the D in Doreen was the only part of the sign that remained lit. With one glance at the menu, I found it annoyingly ironic that this place is known for their fresh blueberries, I sighed. When ordering my french toast, I slipped an unreturned smile to the waitress, "but no blueberries please," as to not offend her by refusing these famous blueberries. The food came out about twenty minutes later, and not a second too soon as my stomach began to speak as if it had a mind of its own. As the detached waitress laid down our plates in front of us, I knew she must be mistaken; I was looking at a dish of french toast, absolutely littered with blueberries, to the extent that I could barely discern what lay underneath. I looked around at my satisfied family; my little brother with his grilled cheese, my mother with her eggs benedict, and my father with his greek omelet. My eyes returned to the waitress with such an intense look of animosity. She recognized the gaze, "Oh, I'm sorry sweetie you said no blueberries didn't you?" she sounded sincere. "Let me run back and whip up another dish for you okay?" My father almost cut her off, "That won't be necessary, we're on a strict schedule," His eyes were now fixed on me, "just bring him out a bagel with cream cheese and we'll soon be on our way." I wanted to pick up the butter knife in front me and jam it into my father strict eyes, followed by the stupid emotionless impotent dog of a waitress. I snapped. Knowing that it would mean getting the belt not a second after we returned home, I immediately lashed out. "Useless incapable wench!!" I'm not sure what was more enjoyable, the look on the waitress's face or the look on my father's. The thing about my father is, whenever he gets to that point of peak outrage, a rather amusing vein protrudes from his huge forehead as his face turns fire engine red. This sense of jocularity I experienced was of course immediately evaporated when I came to terms with the beating that was sure to ensue later on.

I digress; back to the gloomy morning in which the scent of french toast permeates my nostrils filling me with elation. I race downstairs like a child on christmas morning. I turn into the dining room where my family waits; my father reading his paper, my mother setting down the final utensils, my brother sitting unusually innocent. The first thing that catches my eye is the plate at my place setting. I see the golden trim surrounding the plate and immediately recognize it to be my Lion King plate, my favorite. In the middle of the plate was Pride Rock, all of the animals in the animal kingdom paying tribute to their rightful king, Mufasa; Simba obviously still a cub at this point. I am frozen, just basking in the joy of a pile of french toast sitting plumply on my favorite plate. However, this feeling of jubilation quickly rushes from my body when I roam closer see that the toast on my plate is covered in blueberries. I stand, disbelieving, with a look on my face as if it was my family who just got slaughtered in front of my eyes instead my my french toast. I look around at my untroubled family, my mother placing down a small pitcher of syrup as she looks at me and says, "Isn't it wonderful that your brother went through all the trouble to make us breakfast!?" It was as if she was utterly oblivious to my lifelong blueberry allergy. My gaze now focused on my little brother, that little spite-filled rat f**k monkey looking beast, his vindictive smirk as a mark of some sort of victory over me. I stood frozen in time, and it amazed me that the little brat would go through all of this trouble to infuriate me, completely aware of the extraordinary beating that I would soon inflict on him when father was out of sight; perhaps I would make him bleed from his a*****e again from another atomic wedgie. It occurred to me, that this was well worth the beating for him, that he did this just to see the look that was on my face at this very moment. I could relate to him, because my next action held similar properties; what I did next would certainly warrant an extraordinary beating from father. The moments from when I first walked into the dining room, to right now, all happened within what seemed to be a blink of an eye. Still in a state of unadulterated rage, I lifted my favorite plate above my head and smashed it full force into the floor, completely shattering it sending french toast, blueberries, and all the animals of the animal kingdom to different corners of the room. I saw my brother, with a state of absolute disbelief on his monkey face. My mother, glancing at my father and then to me with a look of pity on her face that spoke as if to say, "Honey, I love you but even I can't save you from his wrath now." Finally, I viewed my father. His face turned that fire engine red as he began to slip his belt from the loops of his pants. For that brief moment, it was worth it as I let out a chuckle at the sight of that ridiculous vein jutting out from his oversized forehead.

Author's Note

I'd love to hear some thoughts

Reviews

[Marie]

Very entertaining story. I don't like blueberries myself, though I won't have a coniption fit if they're served. It's too bad about the place, but it should have been smashed over the little brother's head.

[Woody]

Nice descriptions. Good narrative. Believable events in an ordinary day. I liked it. Well done.