This morning I made oatmeal for breakfast, different from my daily eggs routine. I needed a new warmth - comfortable and laced with sweet. As I stirred the oats, I anticipated the sticking sensation, the heft and cling to the wooden spoon. Refreshing.
Quickly the oats boiled, puffed and worked their magic in the pot, while I stirred, eagerly awaiting the addition of the brown sugar. Turning off the burner and putting the matching lid on the pot, I then reached up for the brown sugar canister - one of the finest staples in the kitchen. With spoon in hand, I dove into the canister, pulling out several scoops while planting them into my ceramic bowl. I left the chunks, chunky.
Once the hot oatmeal hit the bottom of the brown sugared bowl, I stirred. Stirring, I saw the swirls of sugar color my oatmeal. With measured doses of milk, again I transformed both the consistency and the color of my breakfast. Creamy white mixed in with the earthy brown. Too much stirring and the swirls dissolved - just enough and the diverse blend of ingredients held their own, like thick threads in fabric.
My bowl was clean before I even sat down. Warm in my hands, I cupped it against my body while dipping and swirling the oatmeal onto spoon and into my expecting taste buds.
It's that time of year when my soul reaches for nourishment. Depth and enlightenment in new possibilities. I stir the pot. Again ready for the next dose. The thick oats, purifying milk and earthy brown sugar. Let it fall into place.