Mom used to make a pot of globby oatmeal for breakfast. Especially during the cool months.
It sat in the pot with a big spoon in it and Mom would leave toppings in heaping bowls on the counter.
As a kid the only way to ingest the oatmeal, was to smother it in brown sugar, coconut, pecans and, if the store provided, some cut fruit.
Each spoonful was wrenched out the bowl and carefully a bit of sugar was added, a nut, until the perfect bite was arranged.
Then the licking of the palette commenced. Like a dog with peanut butter, we would chew and lick and attempt the unhinged jaw to eat.
Oatmeal was never a favorite.
But time has changed me some I guess.
As fall arrives, the trees pull on their red and gold coats, the street is slick with autumnal mist and the last of the tomatoes hang forlornly on the vine, I crave warm food for breakfast.
Today, I ate oatmeal for breakfast.
