Oatmeal Is The Canvas, Baby, And Your Wildest Dreams Are The Paint
After yesterday’s heated topic, I figured I should take on something light, something airy and wonderful, which is why I decided to blog about gun control.
Hold for laughter.
I have weird ideas about gun control, and now gun control is this thing trapped in the amber of irony what with the fact that we let potential terrorists buy guns, and popular wisdom says, “Maybe we shouldn’t do that,” but then you have the GOP NRA-types who normally give a high priority to national security and keeping foreign terrorists from blowing things up until you say, “Well, maybe those guys shouldn’t buy guns,” and then the NRA tightens its butthole and starts imagining a slippery slope where suddenly you take guns out of terrorists hands and suddenly the monolithic Big Government is stealing guns from hunters and domestic abusers and babies and gang thugs (you know, those whose gun ownership rights are supported by the Second Amendment), and all of that is fascinating to me (as I am, indeed, a gun owner), so…
What I’m saying is, we should probably talk about oatmeal, instead.
The slogan for oatmeal in America should be:
Oatmeal: Fuck Yeah!
And every time you open a container of oatmeal, that container should let out a rock scream and a guitar chord with drum solo. And white doves should fly out. And then catch fire.
I used to distrust oatmeal. I mean, as a kid I didn’t eat healthy breakfasts all the time. Egg sandwiches are good, and I ate a lot of those, but before school every morning I ate a bowl of Ramen noodles. Not a wise choice, and my mother probably should’ve slapped the fork out of my hand, but hindsight is 20-20.
Oatmeal for me was this bland gluey library paste: a glop of flavorless mush that looked no different from a dissected hunk of scrapple. I mean, texturally, stuff was a challenge for me as a kid. Not sure why that was, but anything with a funky texture did me in. Mushrooms, for instance, were like eating little human ears. Chew, chew, chew, rubber, rubber, cartilage, chew, bleagh. Of course, now I love mushrooms. In fact, nearly all the things I hated as a kid I’m into now, and I wish I could’ve gotten into them sooner.
Texture’s funny for people. You look at someone like Andrew Zimmern of the ever-awesome Bizarre Foods show (Travel Channel), and you see a guy who will eat like, fermented duck fetus still in the shell or a fistful of dung beetles, but he blanches if you put Spam in front of him. Or Jell-o. Anything with that gelatinous texture gives that crazy dude the vapors.
Within the last year or so, I’ve slapped on my hip waders and have stepped deep into a love of the goopy slurry known as oatmeal.
I bounce between the baby-food texture of rolled oats and the awesome pop-betwixt-your-teeth texture of steel-cut. I’ve never tried the… what are the uncut oats called? Groats? Right? Goddamn that’s a horrible name for anything, unless that anything is, say, a cave-dwelling troglodyte. You got an ogre or a troll, you call it a groat. You got food, I guess you cut the “gr-” off it and call it an “-oat.”
I mean, groat. Damn. It sounds like a crotch tumor. “I got a bad groat forming. Feels like a sock full of Superballs coming together. Don’t have health care, so I’m-a burn it off with a propane torch.”
Actually, I remember at Friendly’s they had a fish dinner called a “scrod,” and sometimes they had a “scrod boat platter.” Scrod? For real? Scrod? And people ate that? Folks, branding matters. Scrod and Groat could be a pair of troglodyte detectives. One’s an Ogre. The other a Troll! They solve crime. The Scrod and Groat Show. Eventually Groat could yell, “KNEEL BEFORE SCROD!” Scrod is just a whitefish. So call it that.
I dunno. We were talking about oatmeal (not, thankfully groatmeal).
What I’m saying is, oatmeal. Fuck yeah.
The thing I learned about oatmeal is that it’s like the foundation to a delicious house. I’m sure some people eat oatmeal straight-up. My mother eats it with salt and… I think that’s it. Me, though, I see oatmeal as the canvas. And pretty much every damn ingredient in my house serve as the paints.
Every morning, I can do a different oatmeal breakfast. It’s like a nutrient-delivery-system. I wondered how I could easily get more fruit in my diet? Wham! Oatmeal, fuckers! (Which is different than oatmeal-fuckers.) Maybe berries? Or a little grated apple or pear? Craisins or raisins? Boom. Do I need some extra sweetening? A bit of honey, maybe? Or real maple syrup (never that fake-ass shit)? A spoonful of jam? A dab of brown sugar and cinnamon? What about the dairy? Yes to dairy? A little milk? Heavy cream? Butter? Or rather, almond milk, soy milk, coconut milk? Howzabout some texture? Granola? Crushed nuts? (Heh, nuts.) (Shut up.) Heck, you can cook steel-cut oats then toast a spoonful of oats after, and put the uncooked oats atop the cooked oats for a goddamn crunchgasm betwixt your teefuses.
It’s like, I just bought some ginger jam the other day.
Does that have room in my oatmeal?
Or, I look at Indian-style rice pudding, with the fragrant cardamom and what-not — what if I let cardamom and coconut milk make sweet love in my oatmeal? I bet that’d be delicious.
Tell me of your oatmeal exploits.
What do you put in your oatmeal? Hell, let’s all think outside the oatmeal box. What haven’t you tried that might be good? Get creative. Let’s go nuts. Let’s all take off our pants and run around. Eeeee!