Sometimes I just never learn.
I love wine. I love sweets. I love boys.
Can’t stop until I get enough.
And enough rarely ever comes.
Except with the wine. Over a bottle is just excessive. Truth.
The other two? Gimme gimme…
What? I can’t help it…
I’ll address one thing- and that’s the love of the sweet stuff. I often joke that it would be nice to have Paula Deen as a mother-in-law. Or at least a friendly neighbor. Pecans and butter in EVERYTHING! Weeeee!
A few months ago, I spotted her recipe for baked french toast casserole. Then I spotted it again. And again. I took it as a sign. This shiz has GOT to be made.So I asked my mom for the opportunity to bake this as a substitute for the cinnamon rolls this year for our Christmas brunch. And stopped by the store on the way out to the parent’s house to pick up half and half and bread.
My mom had the pecans and butter covered. Maybe she has a little Paula Deen obsession, too?The nice thing about this dish is that it is made the night before. So the morning of Christmas, there was no mess and more time to focus on other important things- like opening presents!
Well. Put a pan under the casserole dish. Because there’s a good chance the egg/milk/sugar mixture will bubble up. Up and over. And onto the bottom of the oven.
This will proceed to make the oven smoke. And smoke some more. And when you open the oven to check what’s going on, that smoke will billow out and terrify you that Christmas brunch will be ruined.I promise it won’t be ruined. And will still come out delicious.
Obviously, after a fabulous brunch dish such as this, along with that 2/3 of a pecan pie I consumed on my own, and whatever other christmas cookies/candy, I was ready to get back to my routine.
More specifically, the gym.
The Shred was done a few times at my parents’ house, but I wanted cardio back into my life. NEEDED, to be honest.
So as soon as I was back at home and semi-unpacked (or at least the car was unloaded), there was a trip to gym. Nothing crazy because the drive yesterday was exhausting, but 20 minutes on the stairmill and 25 on the elliptical.
It was logged in the running journal my dear friend Danielle gave me a few months ago for my birthday. Sure it’s not a run, but it counts. Don’t tell me otherwise. Because you have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to break this out. I’m a total nerd like that and love me a good planner.
There’s a plan to log an actual run into the running journal today. An actual run. Wow. It’s been well over a week since that happened.
It should be hilariously exhausting.