I once knew a boy who
would prepare breakfast for me. As I roused from my lazy slumber, he carried a
tray of food up the dark, winding staircase, bringing an odd mishmash to
the bedside table: cucumber slices, cherry tomatoes, and a bowl of rolled
oats swimming in a pool of cold milk. We sat cross-legged on the bed, still in
pjs, and lapped up the food as bright rays of gold light slipped through the
blinds.
I haven't met anyone else who eats oats cold and I didn't mind (why complain when someone makes you food?). Besides, I don’t care for warm oatmeal, there’s a funky starchy scent that lingers and the mushy, congealed bits of gnarly grains turns me off. My nose scrunches up every morning my mom makes it.
I haven't met anyone else who eats oats cold and I didn't mind (why complain when someone makes you food?). Besides, I don’t care for warm oatmeal, there’s a funky starchy scent that lingers and the mushy, congealed bits of gnarly grains turns me off. My nose scrunches up every morning my mom makes it.
The only places I approve of oats in my food is: granola, granola bars, and oatmeal cookies. I had a hankering for cookies a few weeks ago. I ached for crispy edges, chewy middles and dark, sensuous chunks of chocolate. I wanted something like these chocolate chunk cookies or these whole wheat cookies; thick mounds of baked dough that deliver sure promise of satisfaction. After mixing the batter, I bid it good night and kept it in the fridge, letting the flavours to develop before baking them the following day. When the first batch was done, I sneaked a bite, the chocolate still hot and melting from the oven, making it very hard to share.
I packaged these beauties
in tin foil, gifted them to a friend who later told me they did some serious
damage to her purse, perfuming it with sweet butter commingled with
chocolate and how she couldn't stop taking deep whiffs of her purse.
