French Wondertoast.

How does your dad get the pancakes so fluffy, he asked his girlfriend.
You should taste his french wondertoast, she said, if you think his pancakes are good.
What is french wondertoast, he asked.
What it says on the label, she said: french, wonder, toast.
Yeah, but, he said.
She whispered in his ear: but choose wisely — it grants you the power of flight. But it’s a secret.
After that, he wouldn’t shut up about french wondertoast.
Her dad said he would make some for breakfast if he pruned the plum tree.
The plum tree was getting real bushy and pressing up against the neighbor’s house and was too tall to pick all the plums in summer and storms blew it up against the house in winter.
So if he pruned it back he could have french wondertoast.
But if I ate the french wondertoast before pruning the tree, I wouldn’t need a ladder would I? he said.
You told him about french wondertoast, her dad said to her. It was supposed to be secret.
The girl shook her head sadly because she knew what was coming: her dad would stick him in the tower with the others who couldn’t shut up about french wondertoast.
And the plum tree grew and grew.