What can you say about the French? They're apathetic towards bathing and conflict. Fanatical about wine and hairy armpits. And they fucking love mimes. Nothing but extremely attractive characteristics, right? Right.

Now, out of nowhere, they start making this toast. (What's that? French toast has, literally, been around for centuries? I'm sorry, you say I should check my facts before going on anti-franco diatribes? And I should leave the house more? And my personal hygiene has lately become cause for concern? Noted.)

But let's not dwell on the Frogs. Let's talk about their creation. Their brunchy gift to the world. Their reason to arise at the crack of noon on a Sunday. Their French Toast. It really is a thing of beauty, isn't it? Its fluff, eternal bliss. Its gooeyness, straight out of folklore. Its crispy edges, undoubtedly sent down from above on a band of barrel chested steeds, powdered sugar raining down from their flowing manes. That's the way it is in my head, at least. The reality is much less sexy.

But the finished product? I don't even want to order it. I want to wine and dine it. I want to dote on it. I want to be seen with it. I want to take it to a chic bistro in a trendy part of town.

I want to order it the most expensive bottle on the list. I want to gaze at it through the candlelight and reveal my soul to it. I want it to intuitively understand every nook and cranny of my psyche. I want to kiss both sides of its neck. And run my fingers through its hair. I want to give it the world, and the life it deserves. I want it. Inside me.