"Goldilocks would pick this one."
-- Leo
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| Oatmeal with brown sugar 11-9-14 |
"You have to eat oatmeal or you'll dry up.
Anybody knows that."
-- Kay Thompson, Eloise
I helped Leo and his team win their big football game last night.
No, I didn't catch any passes or recover any fumbles. I didn't call any plays or break any tackles.
Hell, I didn't even break a sweat.
What I did do, though, was feed my boy a big, hot, creamy, hearty, satisfying bowl of oatmeal before he headed out the door for his morning practice session.
It was barely even 40 degrees outside, and I wanted him to start his day with a good hot breakfast that would warm his cockles and stick to his niblets.
Wheaties may call itself the "breakfast of champions," but Wheaties can suck it. I'll put my money on oatmeal every time.
Plus, I happen to make really good oatmeal.
Not instant. That shit's like eating wallpaper paste.
Not pre-flavored. That shit's like eating pre-flavored wallpaper paste.
Not the fancy-schmancy steel-cut Irish ones either. I've tried them a few times, but I just don't love 'em. They're perfectly fine and healthy and everything. It's just a personal preference. No offense to the Irish, of which I am one. I just don't like chewy oatmeal.
No nuts, berries, seeds, granola, chocolate chips, quinoa or other add-ins. That shit just results in a textural cluster-fuck.
I'll take plain, old fashioned rolled oats every time. The simpler the better. I add a little salt, a tiny sprinkle of cinnamon and clove to warm up the flavor, and then I cook it gently until it's smooth and creamy and soft and luxurious.
A splash of milk is optional.
Brown sugar is non-negotiable.
Anyway, enough rhapsodizing.
My point is, when my son woke up in the morning, there was a steaming pot of hot, homemade oatmeal waiting for him. He ate a big Papa Bear-sized bowl and I ate a little Baby-Bear-sized bowl along with him.
Me: "How's it taste?"
Him: "Goldilocks would pick this."
Awwww. So sweet.
Anyway, Leo's team won 52 to 20, which makes him a champion. You do the math.
After he made an impressive open-field tackle, my husband high-fived me and said "It must have been the oatmeal!"
Damn straight it was the oatmeal -- my oatmeal.
OK, maybe I can't give my oatmeal all the credit. Probably a season of practice and lifting and training and conditioning and coaching and teamwork and all that stuff had a little something to do with Leo's success on the football field.
Nah.
Fuck that.
It was my oatmeal.
