Gypsy Toast

My Sunday breakfast of bread soaked in battered egg and fried in butter, then honey dribbled over to taste… I know this as Gypsy toast, or French toast, and even Eggy Bread. There are many other names I’m sure. I prefer Gypsy Toast. As I’m eating my fare I can image a circle of old wood caravans resting by a copse. Dew still on their ornate trim and the grass under their wheels, and the early mist drifting about them. A small fire is lit and eggs, freshly poached from a nearby farm, cracked into a tin jug and briskly beaten. Hunks of bread torn from loaves baked in a homemade oven are dipped in and laid dripping on a pan with sizzling butter. The scent of fried egg and bread fills the scene as ravenous children, rubbing sleep from their eyes, watch on; their fingers waiting to be smeared with melted butter-oil and oozing honey…


About malekmontag

I am a writer and a wage-slave, and proud father of George Giraffe. I live in the UK, but I exist everywhere. My first stories were published this year (2016) in Short Stories and Tall Tales (Atla Publishing). Follow me on Twitter @Malek_Montag15. My Work is also available on
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