(Dammit. I just realized that if I’m going to use Roman numerals for these ‘Kentucky-fied Kitchen’ posts (yes, I am typing it out another time because, let’s be honest — it’s brilliant)….Anyway….if I’m going to be using Roman numerals for their numbering, well, then….I’m going to have to learn the Roman numerals.
I’ll think about that later. For now, let’s get things underway.)
Last night, I bought a loaf of crusty, dense French bread. We used 2 slices and made a couple pieces of bruschetta, for enjoying pre-dinner. Looking over the loaf, we realized it would be most perfect for French toast. And so the plan was made — in our hearts and in our heads.
We walked to the yoga studio this morning with the intention of getting some good work in before gorging ourselves. We walked back with weary bodies, but sharp focus on the task ahead. Get home, get the coffee brewing, and get the French toast in the pan.
It was quiet when we re-entered. Peaceful, even. And remained so for about 15 seconds. Then I noticed the bread bag on the floor. Tattered. Torn. VACANT. Oh, shit. Shitshitshitshitshit. I was suddenly aware that a) I wasn’t going to have French toast for breakfast, and b) that my dog was at risk for bloat. (The 2nd leading cause of death in dogs, mind you.) Tears ensued; and to be honest, I can’t know how many fell for the French toast and how many fell for fear of her fate….
I called a vet. They said not to induce vomiting, to just wait this out. (and if I’m quoting her, she actually said, “Her gums should be pink. She should look guilty, at most.”) Keep an eye on her. And so…we did. From the kitchen table. Because after I dried my eyes, amy asked if maybe-some-fresh-banana-beignets would help….??