I was at Audrey and Matt’s house very, very early one morning last week (like 5 am early) to babysit their 4 little guys while the parents headed off to an event in New York City.

By 6:30 or so, little feet could be heard upstairs.

By 6:31 or so, sweet little voices were asking for breakfast.

THEM:  “Grandma, do you know how to make French Toast?”

ME:  “What?  Of course, I do!  I’ve made more French Toast in my life than there are grains of sand on all the beaches on earth.”

(Well.  Maybe not that many.  And anyway, I think that grains of sand thing has something to do stars in the universe.)

(And, in all fairness to me, Pops is the breakfast magician in their eyes.  Grandma makes perfect PB & J, lasagna, chicken pot pie, spaghetti & meatballs, beyond delicious snacks & desserts and the like.  Pops makes breakfast.)

But anyway.

There I was, standing in Audrey and Matt’s kitchen before 7:00 am one morning last week with 4 sets of eyes staring at me… while I professed my talents at French Toast.

I whipped up the egg mixture to perfection…

The boys were beginning to be convinced.

I dug out the gi-normous pan that Audrey and Matt need for 4  hungry boys…

I used real butter, the kind that sizzles back to the 1950’s when my Mom made French Toast…

The boys were impressed.

Then I tried sizzling the butter.

Wait a minute.  How do you work this stove top?  How do you get this thing ON?  Smile, Sharon.  Just keep smiling.

4 sets of eyes were scanning my progress.

Hmmmmm.  Just press this.  Or this.  Keep smiling.  Or maybe THIS one on this newfangled, high tech stove top…

Furrowed brows on the boys.

Then the obvious.

THEM:  “Grandma, can Pops come cook the French Toast?”

ME:  “How ’bout donuts?”

So in jammies and all, we headed on a journey to Dunkin’ Donuts.

And by 7:55 am, the boys had eaten their fill of maple frosted donuts and were dressed for Phase II of the morning.  School…

Thank goodness I know how to read a digital clock.

And start a car.