The Familiar Bowl Good ol' Oatmeal
I wake up each day and feel like a cigarette butt that was burnt down to the filter and extinguished by being vigorously crushed into the remains of its own ashes.
The other day I stopped by home to pick up a few items to bring back with me to the Petersen's. Among other things, I grabbed a tupperware container of oatmeal and another of brown sugar.
Ginger and I always had oatmeal for breakfast. Neither of us ever felt like eating much in the morning, but my stomach always feels a bit acidic if I leave it completely empty. The large number of pills that Ginger was required to take each day played havoc with her digestive system and a bowl of oatmeal was even more effective to calm her tummy than the sodium bicarb tablets she'd been prescribed.
Ginger likes her oats a quite a bit more goopy than I do and required an exact amount of brown sugar. I prefer raisins as my oatmeal sweetener--not only for the flavor, either. Something about the structure of the dried little fruits as they float in the boiling oat solution prevents the mixture from boiling over the side of its bowl and making a sticky mess in the microwave.
Because of my raisins, I always had the luxury of being able to walk away from the cooking oats with impunity. Ginger had to stand there and monitor her breakfast--ready to stab at the stop button to avert disaster. The cooking time required to achieve the correct level of goopitude was almost 2 to 3 times what my bowl required. Which made her breakfast far more vulnerable to volcano-like behavior. I always assembled the ingredients of her breakfast along with my own, but always left the actual heating to her.
I think Ginger regarded it as the one essentially unfair aspect of the universe. Even though she was by far the more technically proficient cook, it seemed that the microwave oven only behaved itself when I used it. I think she categorized microwaving as a subset of engineering and not a proper cooking instrument at all.
I think that eating oatmeal is a easy way to add a few more grains to our diet and try to make it a little more healthy. The quick and simple cooking requirements are also a major benefit to someone who habitually wakes up unfocused, groggy and starving. I don't want haut cusine in the morning. I want something that puts a comforting warmth in my belly with a minimum of intellectual challenge.
I haven't had oatmeal for breakfast for several weeks now. I thought that it might help make starting a new day a little less unbearable if I had a familiar little ritual of microwaves, oats and water to perform. The beeping of a microwave is not all that different from the sound of an alarm clock; and both are associated in my mind with the process of fighting off the lure of pillows and blankets and getting on with the responsibilities of life and living. The sound that the microwave seems far more friendly and encouraging that the blare of an alarm clock--even though, intellectually, I recognize that the two devices are united in the same purpose. I suppose that if my alarm clock woke me up to give me a cookie I would regard it more charitably.
Sitting here now, with an empty bowl near me, I do feel a bit better. I was right about the psychological benefits of eating a familiar meal. I don't feel so exhausted and drained as I did just a few minutes ago.
I was completely wrong about the cooking ritual being an emotional benefit, however.
Cooking one bowl of oatmeal instead of two is one of the most cruel and hurtful forms of self torture ever conceived.
The other day I stopped by home to pick up a few items to bring back with me to the Petersen's. Among other things, I grabbed a tupperware container of oatmeal and another of brown sugar.
Ginger and I always had oatmeal for breakfast. Neither of us ever felt like eating much in the morning, but my stomach always feels a bit acidic if I leave it completely empty. The large number of pills that Ginger was required to take each day played havoc with her digestive system and a bowl of oatmeal was even more effective to calm her tummy than the sodium bicarb tablets she'd been prescribed.
Ginger likes her oats a quite a bit more goopy than I do and required an exact amount of brown sugar. I prefer raisins as my oatmeal sweetener--not only for the flavor, either. Something about the structure of the dried little fruits as they float in the boiling oat solution prevents the mixture from boiling over the side of its bowl and making a sticky mess in the microwave.
Because of my raisins, I always had the luxury of being able to walk away from the cooking oats with impunity. Ginger had to stand there and monitor her breakfast--ready to stab at the stop button to avert disaster. The cooking time required to achieve the correct level of goopitude was almost 2 to 3 times what my bowl required. Which made her breakfast far more vulnerable to volcano-like behavior. I always assembled the ingredients of her breakfast along with my own, but always left the actual heating to her.
I think Ginger regarded it as the one essentially unfair aspect of the universe. Even though she was by far the more technically proficient cook, it seemed that the microwave oven only behaved itself when I used it. I think she categorized microwaving as a subset of engineering and not a proper cooking instrument at all.
I think that eating oatmeal is a easy way to add a few more grains to our diet and try to make it a little more healthy. The quick and simple cooking requirements are also a major benefit to someone who habitually wakes up unfocused, groggy and starving. I don't want haut cusine in the morning. I want something that puts a comforting warmth in my belly with a minimum of intellectual challenge.
I haven't had oatmeal for breakfast for several weeks now. I thought that it might help make starting a new day a little less unbearable if I had a familiar little ritual of microwaves, oats and water to perform. The beeping of a microwave is not all that different from the sound of an alarm clock; and both are associated in my mind with the process of fighting off the lure of pillows and blankets and getting on with the responsibilities of life and living. The sound that the microwave seems far more friendly and encouraging that the blare of an alarm clock--even though, intellectually, I recognize that the two devices are united in the same purpose. I suppose that if my alarm clock woke me up to give me a cookie I would regard it more charitably.
Sitting here now, with an empty bowl near me, I do feel a bit better. I was right about the psychological benefits of eating a familiar meal. I don't feel so exhausted and drained as I did just a few minutes ago.
I was completely wrong about the cooking ritual being an emotional benefit, however.
Cooking one bowl of oatmeal instead of two is one of the most cruel and hurtful forms of self torture ever conceived.