I really like oatmeal. This is a fetish I inherited from my father, who has been eating oatmeal every morning for the last 20 years (perhaps longer — I don’t remember back farther than that). I’m not as bad as him: every night he lays out his preppings for the next morning, dry oats waiting in the pan, honey and molasses already in the bowl, which sits on the counter alongside his regimine of vitamins and suppliments. It’s all waiting for him in the morning, so all he has to do is add water, turn on NPR, and zone out.

As for me, I just wake up, fill the tea kettle, and pour the quick oats into a bowl with an obscene amount of raisins. When the water is done, I make my black tea and pour the water into the bowl. After a minute or two, I put a dollop of vanilla yogurt on top of the yogurt, and pour 1% milk into both my oatmeal and my tea.

This morning, however, I realized that I had run out of oatmeal. O Horror! I remembered that there is oatmeal in the cafeteria here at the paper, and bided my time for breakfast until arriving at work.

I have to report that the oatmeal here is really good — solid and thick and hearty-tasting, and the condiments! Dear lord! They’ve got craisins and walnuts! It was heavenly. I was pleased.