Sun up over the fairgrounds

[susanstinson]

One of the things about having the same breakfast every morning is that it serves as a pragmatic and literally nourishing ritual. Minor variations are ripples in the long oatmeal river. This morning, I overcooked it, so it's gluey. The big strawberries are very cold, bordering on icy, tart, sweet. It's the last of the pecans. I'm in a hurry because I'm writing with my friend Sally today. And it's as holy, complicated, simple and necessary as yesterday's breakfast, as food ever is. Every joy to you all this morning -- oatmeal embracers, resisters and skeptics alike -- the whole bowlful.