(no subject)
One of my favorite part of mornings as a child was waking up in my Grandfathers house to the noise of a dozen people making cream of wheat, fighting and laughing in a kitchen washed in a golden midmorning primer of light. The noises excited me, and I used to take a few minutes to get my bearings, then stumble out of bed. Opa would have cream of wheat waiting for me. He would put in bowls, cover it with brown sugar and a dash of cinnamon, then top it with milk. I would climb into the hospital bed with Oma and a small lap table and he would serve us, a dishtowel draped over his arm, belting out German opera in a voice bellied by his years and years as a drill sergeant. He was very insistent that there was a special way to eat it. You had to start at the end closest to you, then slowly work your way to the other rim of the bowl, and stopping every other bite to claim how it good it was. There is nothing in this world quite like German ostentation. But in its own way it too is beautiful. He would bring us tall cool glasses of guava juice and my heart would swell with love. He would drink his coffee from a beige stein and once satisfied everyone was content, he would settle on the couch with a large plate of cold cuts and the news on loud enough to deafen the neighborhood.