Baked French Toast

Liam's first Christmas. The real one.

Last year he was three days old and slept through it. This year he is nine months old and he saw the lights and the tree and the paper and he reacted to all of it: slowly, carefully, with both hands, with the reverence he brings to things that matter even when he doesn't know why they matter yet. Sean brought him downstairs on Christmas morning and held him in front of the tree and the lights were on and it was quiet and Liam put his hand on a low branch and looked up into the tree and I had my phone out but I didn't take the picture. I just watched. There's the picture in my head and there's the picture in the phone and sometimes the phone version is not the point.

We did Christmas Eve at St. Brigid's—midnight mass, which Liam did not make it to, falling asleep on Sean's shoulder at the ten o'clock hour and staying there through the homily. Sean stood with a sleeping baby in his arms for forty minutes and didn't move and didn't complain and when we walked home at eleven-fifteen through the Southie streets with the cold and the dark and the snow that had started coming down, I thought: this is what I wanted. Not the postcard version of it. This version. Ours.

Christmas morning: Sean's French toast again, maple syrup, Liam in the high chair with his own pieces, looking at the tree. Maureen's hand-embroidered stocking, now with a small stuffed bear in it. My mother's brown bread on the table. The Fitzgerald visit in the afternoon, Linda tearing up when she saw Liam in the cable-knit. Dinner at my parents', my father's lamb, the sweet potato casserole, the particular noise of a family that fits together.

Second Christmas married. First Christmas with a child who knows the lights are there.

Sean makes French toast every Christmas morning — it’s just what happens now, the same way the tree goes up and the stockings come out. This year, with Liam in the high chair pulling apart his own little pieces and looking up at the lights, I wanted a version that didn’t require anyone hovering over a pan. Baked French toast goes in the oven and stays warm while you’re watching your baby touch a Christmas tree branch for the first time, which is exactly the kind of morning this was.

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 45 min | Total Time: 1 hr | Servings: 8

Ingredients

1 loaf brioche or thick-cut white bread (about 12–14 slices), cut into 1-inch cubes
6 large eggs
1 1/2 cups whole milk
1/2 cup heavy cream
1/3 cup granulated sugar
2 tablespoons pure maple syrup, plus more for serving
1 1/2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
Pinch of salt
2 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into small pieces
Powdered sugar, for dusting (optional)

Instructions

Prepare the pan. Grease a 9x13-inch baking dish with butter or nonstick spray. Arrange the bread cubes in an even layer in the dish.
Make the custard. In a large bowl, whisk together the eggs, milk, heavy cream, sugar, maple syrup, vanilla extract, cinnamon, nutmeg, and salt until smooth and well combined.
Soak the bread. Pour the custard evenly over the bread cubes, pressing gently so every piece absorbs the mixture. Dot the top with the small pieces of butter.
Refrigerate (optional but recommended). Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least 30 minutes, or overnight for best results. This allows the bread to fully absorb the custard.
Preheat the oven. When ready to bake, preheat your oven to 350°F (175°C). Remove the dish from the refrigerator while the oven heats.
Bake. Bake uncovered for 40–45 minutes, until the top is golden brown and the center is set. If the top begins to brown too quickly, tent loosely with foil for the last 10 minutes.
Serve. Let rest for 5 minutes before scooping. Dust with powdered sugar if desired and serve warm with maple syrup alongside.

Nutrition (per serving)

Baked French Toast — The Christmas Morning We’ll Always Remember