Coconut French Toast

Mid-June and Memphis is a furnace with a river running through it. The temperature hit 96 on Thursday, and the humidity made it feel like 106, and I walked my route with the slow determination of a man who has accepted that he will be wet for the next four months and has made peace with it. The frozen water bottle in the mailbag is now two frozen water bottles, because adaptation is the key to survival in both evolution and the postal service.

DeAndre turned six and a half this week — not a real birthday, but try telling that to a child who has discovered the concept of half-birthdays and considers them legally binding celebrations. Walter Jr. brought him to the house Saturday morning, and I made him pancakes because DeAndre once said my pancakes are "the best in the whole world and probably space," which is a review I will cherish more than any Michelin star.

My pancakes are nothing fancy: flour, egg, buttermilk, a pinch of salt, a spoonful of sugar, a splash of vanilla, butter in the skillet. The secret — if you can call it that — is patience. You don't flip a pancake when you're ready. You flip it when the pancake is ready. You watch for the bubbles to form and pop, for the edges to set, for the surface to go from glossy to matte, and then — only then — you flip. Uncle Clyde would have approved. "You can't rush a pancake any more than you can rush a shoulder," he would have said, and he would have been right, because the principle is universal: good things reveal themselves on their own schedule.

After pancakes, DeAndre and I went to the backyard and I showed him the smoker. He's asked about it before, but this time he was serious — asking real questions, the kind a six-year-old asks when he's actually paying attention: "Why is it so rusty?" "Where does the smoke go?" "Why does it smell like that even when there's no fire?" I answered every question the way Uncle Clyde answered mine: honestly, patiently, without condescension. I told him the smoker was built by his great-great-uncle Clyde in 1972, from a steel drum he got from a friend at the railroad yard. I told him Uncle Clyde smoked pork on this drum for thirty-three years. I told him the rust is not rust — it's patina, it's history, it's the smoker remembering every cook it's ever done.

DeAndre put his hand on the barrel and said, "It's warm." It wasn't — it was sitting in shade and hadn't been fired in a week. But I said, "Yeah, buddy. It holds the heat." Because some truths are more true than facts.

Tamika picked up DeAndre around noon and I spent the afternoon doing yard work, which in Memphis in June means sweating while plants grow fast enough that you can practically watch them. Rosetta was at the hospital — Saturday shifts are double pay and Rosetta has never met a dollar she wasn't willing to work for. I mowed and trimmed and pulled weeds and thought about nothing, which is the luxury of physical labor: it empties the mind the way a good smoke empties the wood.

Sunday Rosetta and I drove to Whitehaven after church. Mama was having a good day — clear, sharp, herself. She was sitting in the common room doing a crossword puzzle and wearing the blue cardigan Vernell sent her for Christmas. She looked up when we walked in and said, "Rosetta, tell my son to stop eating so much." Before I'd said a word. Before I'd even sat down. Rosetta laughed so hard she had to hold the wall. Mama smiled the smile of a woman who has been running her family for fifty-nine years and sees no reason to stop from an armchair in Whitehaven.

DeAndre polished off three pancakes that morning and asked if we could have breakfast again next Saturday, which I took as the highest possible honor. If he keeps showing up, I’ll keep cooking — and some Saturdays I swap out the pancake batter for something that gets a little more color on it, a little more texture. This Coconut French Toast is the one I reach for when I want the skillet to do some of the talking: the same patience the pancakes demand, the same rule about not rushing the flip, but with a crunch at the end that makes a six-and-a-half-year-old’s eyes go wide.

Prep Time: 10 min | Cook Time: 20 min | Total Time: 30 min | Servings: 4

Ingredients

8 slices thick-cut bread (brioche or Texas toast)
3 large eggs
1/2 cup whole milk
1/4 cup coconut milk
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
1 tablespoon sugar
1 cup sweetened shredded coconut
2 tablespoons unsalted butter, divided
Maple syrup and powdered sugar, for serving

Instructions

Make the egg wash. In a wide, shallow bowl, whisk together the eggs, whole milk, coconut milk, vanilla extract, cinnamon, and sugar until fully combined and smooth.
Set up the coconut. Spread the shredded coconut in an even layer on a separate plate or shallow dish.
Coat the bread. Dip each slice of bread into the egg wash, letting it soak for about 20–30 seconds per side. Lift the bread, let the excess drip off, then press both sides firmly into the shredded coconut so it adheres.
Heat the skillet. Melt 1 tablespoon of butter in a large skillet or griddle over medium heat. When the butter begins to foam, it’s ready. Do not rush this step — a properly heated pan is the difference between golden and pale.
Cook the first batch. Place 3–4 coated slices in the skillet. Cook undisturbed for 3–4 minutes. Watch the edges: when they look set and the coconut on the bottom is turning deep golden, flip. Cook another 2–3 minutes on the second side. The coconut should be toasted and fragrant, not burned.
Repeat with remaining slices. Add the remaining tablespoon of butter and cook the second batch the same way. Keep the first batch warm in a 200°F oven while you finish.
Serve immediately. Dust with powdered sugar and serve with warm maple syrup on the side.

Nutrition (per serving)

Coconut French Toast — The Morning Belongs to Whoever’s Standing at the Skillet