The Family Story Nobody Asked For
This french toast is baked, which makes it a casserole, which means somewhere a purist is already typing. Let him type. The story begins in 1983, at a lake house, on the morning after a wedding no one can verify.
My aunt Roberta — formidable — had soaked the bread the night before, because Roberta believed preparation was a form of love, and also because she went to bed at 7:30 sharp and brooked no argument on either point.
In every family there is someone who scoops the leftover custard onto the dish. Ours was my uncle Gary. The casserole emerged eggy and forty minutes late, and the family split into factions that persist, in my imagination, to this day. Discard the extra custard. Do it for Roberta. Do it, frankly, against Gary.
The streusel arrived in 1991 with a cousin who came back from culinary school having completed one semester and acquired the phrase 'textural contrast,' which she then applied to every meal, including soup. She was insufferable. She was also right.
Roberta kept the real maple syrup locked in the cabinet with the good scissors. The fake syrup sat out in plain sight, as a test. Guests who reached for it were forgiven — once — and watched thereafter.
In conclusion, baked french toast is a bridge between tonight and tomorrow morning, between preparation and love, between a bowl in the fridge and a table of people who think you got up early. You didn't. Roberta never told either. The recipe is above, where you found it.