After surviving the coronavirus, I turned to my mother’s recipes

Growing up, French toast was the momentary blissful distraction from the daunting realities of my mom’s fatal disease, which rattled the Hirschfeld household for years. The dish symbolized that break from stress. Even in her darkest moments she would make it for me on Sundays, or with me, for my dad, on Father’s day. 

Out came the eggs, vanilla, milk, a dash of cream, a pinch of sugar, and a sprinkle of cinnamon. I cracked the eggs and whipped in the other ingredients. I took a slice of brioche and dipped it in the mixture. I measured by taste, like my mom had. Turned the skillet on, medium heat, melted the butter, and put the brioche slice in the pan. It sizzled, and when its edges were golden brown I flipped it to the other side and waited for the same result. When it was done, I put it on a plate and topped it with maple syrup and a sprinkle of cinnamon. 

French toast seemed particularly appealing now, not just because it’s plated in front of me but as it’s almost Mother’s Day. While we are all homebound and apart, I can bring her warm memory close with her recipe and an added garnish—a dollop of nostalgia.