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Archive for October 20th, 2008

I Hate Oatmeal

It’s nasty, horrid, disgusting stuff. Randy seems to agree with me.

In Alcott’s Eight Cousins, Rose seems initially to share my opinion:

“Uncle, are you going to make me eat oatmeal?” asked Rose, in a
tragic tone.

“Don’t you like it?”

“I de-test it!” answered Rose, with all the emphasis which a
turned-up nose, a shudder, and a groan could give to the three
words.

“You are not a true Scotchwoman, if you don’t like the ‘parritch.’
It’s a pity, for I made it myself, and thought we’d have such a good
time with all that cream to float it in. Well, never mind.” And he
sat down with a disappointed air.

Rose had made up her mind to be obstinate about it, because she
did heartily “detest” the dish; but as Uncle Alec did not attempt to
make her obey, she suddenly changed her mind and thought she
would.

“I’ll try to eat it to please you, uncle; but people are always saying
how wholesome it is, and that makes me hate it,” she said,
half-ashamed at her silly excuse.

“I do want you to like it, because I wish my girl to be as well and
strong as Jessie’s boys, who are brought up on this in the good old
fashion. No hot bread and fried stuff for them, and they are the
biggest and bonniest lads of the lot. Bless you, auntie, and good
morning!”

But then she caves. Silly girl. You don’t hate it because people always say it’s wholesome. You hate it because it’s slimy.

And Mistress Mary Quite Contrary (The Secret Garden) loathes the stuff, too.

“I don’t want it,” she said.

“Tha’ doesn’t want thy porridge!” Martha exclaimed incredulously.

“No.”

“Tha’ doesn’t know how good it is. Put a bit o’ treacle on it or a bit o’ sugar.”

“I don’t want it,” repeated Mary.

“Eh!” said Martha. “I can’t abide to see good victuals go to waste. If our children was at this table they’d clean it bare in five minutes.”

“Why?” said Mary coldly. “Why!” echoed Martha. “Because they scarce ever had their stomachs full in their lives. They’re as hungry as young hawks an’ foxes.”

“I don’t know what it is to be hungry,” said Mary, with the indifference of ignorance.

Martha looked indignant.

“Well, it would do thee good to try it. I can see that plain enough,” she said outspokenly. “I’ve no patience with folk as sits an’ just stares at good bread an’ meat. My word! don’t I wish Dickon and Phil an’ Jane an’ th’ rest of ’em had what’s here under their pinafores.”

“Why don’t you take it to them?” suggested Mary.

But then she goes and starts playing outside and gets all strong and healthy, and see what happens to her:

But after a few days spent almost entirely out of doors she wakened one morning knowing what it was to be hungry, and when she sat down to her breakfast she did not glance disdainfully at her porridge and push it away, but took up her spoon and began to eat it and went on eating it until her bowl was empty.

“Tha’ got on well enough with that this mornin’, didn’t tha’?” said Martha.

“It tastes nice today,” said Mary, feeling a little surprised her self.

“It’s th’ air of th’ moor that’s givin’ thee stomach for tha’ victuals,” answered Martha. “It’s lucky for thee that tha’s got victuals as well as appetite. There’s been twelve in our cottage as had th’ stomach an’ nothin’ to put in it. You go on playin’ you out o’ doors every day an’ you’ll get some flesh on your bones an’ you won’t be so yeller.”

Well, I’ve got plenty of flesh on my bones. I’m not yeller. I don’t live near a moor.  I think Mary was right the first time, when she wanted to give it away.

So why am I eating the disgusting stuff for breakfast? Because every morning I eat a nasty bowl of oatmeal, that’s a morning I’m not stopping at Whataburger and getting a breakfast burrito or a breakfast sandwich and hash browns and a soda. I’m always in a rush in the morning, so there’s never really time to scramble up an egg, and I only like to eat cereal at night if I’m hungry after dinner. So oatmeal it is.  While I’m eating, I keep telling myself that it’s oatmeal cookie dough. Warm oatmeal cookie dough. Warm slimy oatmeal cookie dough.

Blech.

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