This weekend I had a loaf of french bread lying around and thought to myself "I'm going to be the greatest wife ever and make boy some french toast with it". I slice it up, beat up a few eggs, even added some cinnamon and vanilla to the mix, then grabbed for the milk that had yet to be opened and cooked it up and wowed boy with a breakfast feast.
A few hours later...
Boy is sicker than a dog.
We didn't put two and two together until the next morning when boy started feeling better and was craving a bowl of cereal. One bite and the mystery was solved.
I don't get it. The milk had a week before hitting it's expiration date, but it smelled something awful funky.
Guess who's been released of breakfast duties now?