I'm on watch and it's just after 1 am. It's this time of night when I'm most vunerable to nodding off in my chair in front of the computer, radios and monitors. It's the balls; it's rough - the harder I try to study my materials for the boats and such, the heavier my eyes tend to get.
I try to stave it off by switching from study materials to something on the internet. I might browse a few stories on the Times website, or redsox.com, or The Onion, what-have-you. I might look up and price out different new cars I've had my eye on... and if it get really bad - and I mean to the point where I actually do nod off for like, ten seconds, I pop out of my chair and get down on the ground and push out as many push-ups I can do before my arms shake.
I'm up to about 100.
Anyway, so I'm sitting back with my manual in front of me for the 47' MLB, my note pad next to that, the Netflix home page in front of me on the screen, when suddenly I catch this odd whiff of something very nostalgia-inducing.
That ever happen to you? You're sitting some place, whether it be on a bus or at the mall or a friend's house and suddenly your memory is jerked by some smell? You just catch a hint of roasting potatoes or something and suddenly you're ten years old eating dinner at your grandmother's house, or you're at a movie theatre and suddenly you get a sniff of camp fire and you remember that one summer you spent two weeks with your best friend at his family's cabin in the woods.
I caught a whiff, just a few moments ago, of my mom's french toast.
I'm a breakfast guy; huge into breakfast, love breakfast foods, I cook a mean-fucking-breakfast, man. But nothing, not IHOP, not Denny's, not McDonald's, nothing, no one, can top my mom's french toast. I remember being as little as four or five and being woken up to the smells of cinnamon-y egg-battered bread frying on a griddle. A fat dab of butter on top of each slice of bread stacked up on a plate and then soaked in a drum of maple syrup. Jesus Horatio Christ, how awesome would it be right now to have a short stack of my mom's french toast?
Wash it down with a tall cold glass of whole milk. Fuck yes.
It's hard to get the point across about how good this french toast is, but I'll try: Imagine you're best orgasm, like I'm talking about the very first time you came. When it happened you had no idea what your body just went through; you were shocked, scared, out of breath, leaking, probably thought you either just A) killed yourself, or B) did something you weren't supposed to do to yourself or C) saw the face of God. Either way, that pulsing sense of euphoria that coursed it's way through your veins from your privates to your brain and back down your spine to your feet was the heaviest and best narcotic you've ever encountered and will ever encounter. The very hint of the sensation of that first bodily explosion is something you will literally spend your life chasing, and it forever eluding you.
That's how fucking good my mom's french toast is.
In other words, I would not hesitate for one second to put a bullet in your face if it ment getting one fucking forkful of my mom's french toast into my mouth.
If it meant climbing to the top of Mount Everest naked to get a bite of that eggy, syrup-sogged bread, I would.
I would sell my soul at KMart prices to the devil himself, for a hot plate of mom's breakfast delicacy.
I would sit through all three "Fast and The Furious" films. Bet your ass I would.