Growing up, Mom would cook breakfast for us every weekend. Cereal with milk was the norm for the week, but once Saturday rolled around, Mom would break out her Betty Crocker cookbook and open it to the breakfast section. She didn’t really need the cookbook, but I think she opened it out of habit. Mom would make pancakes and french toast and lots and lots of bacon. Her repertoire also included some fantastic cinnamon toast, peanut butter and honey toast and oatmeal. She would only ever cook one thing for breakfast, but whatever she cooked was bound to be delicious. And what got me thinking about Mom’s Saturday morning breakfasts? Well, I’ve been on a cleanse in an attempt to lose the holiday weight I have gained and I get to eat almost nothing. In my food deprived state, I saw a breakfast tray for a patient in the hospital and it had oatmeal on it and the oatmeal seemed absolutely decadent. After drooling over hospital oatmeal (and not stealing a nibble from my patient!), I decided that the next weekend I was off, the boys were going to have hot off the stove oatmeal, made with butter and sugar.
That happened to be today. I got out of bed at the perfectly reasonable time of 10:30 a.m. because the boys were begging for chicken nuggets and I told them they would be trying oatmeal today. They moaned and groaned and made faces. They whined and said they just wanted chicken nuggets. I told them Oma used to make oatmeal for me with lots of butter and sugar. Their ears perked up a little after I said sugar and butter, but only slightly.
So we all tromped down the stairs and I turned on cartoons for them and filled a pan with a bit of milk. I then promptly forgot about the milk as I was getting the oatmeal and got distracted by my phone and the milk may have scorched a little bit. I added in the oatmeal as the boys started whining again about starving to death. I told them the oatmeal only had six more hours to cook and that I’d get it right to them. They may have rolled their eyes at me, but i ignored them. I stirred and stirred and then added more oatmeal because my concoction didn’t have the right consistency. After it reached perfection, I divided the oatmeal into three bowls, added butter and sugar and brought breakfast to the table.
And even I was a bit disappointed and I think I’d have been happier if I had just taken a bite of my patients oatmeal. I don’t think she would have cared. The oatmeal was good, it just didn’t live up to my expectations. And my demon children hated it. Logan absolutely refused to take a bite until I threatened him with housework. Trip, who is a people pleaser and doesn’t like to hurt anyone’s feelings, ate as much as he thought was necessary to make me happy.
And Logan stopped after this bite.