I write as steel cut oats are simmering on the stove. I need
a healthy start after a slight step off the path to nutritional nirvana last
night. It was a holiday, the first my son planned and implemented in our house.
I had to participate. I had issued the challenge for him to make Father’s Day
perfect. So he capped off the night with Cold Stone Ice Cream for all, and an
episode of Doctor Who, for Dad’s entertainment and my enjoyment.
“Well, if I have to cook, I am going to multi-task. Should I
work on my next blog?” Of course I asked out loud! How else would Shadow know
what I was thinking?
I also answered out loud, announcing my decision to take
just a short writing sprint, while the oats cooked. “Really Peg? A short
writing session? Isn’t that one of those phrases like “sort of pregnant” or “a
little dead”? No response.
Needless to say, a blog is done, but I have burned my steel
cut oats. As I stand trying to scrape the crunchy bits off my husbands prized Calphalon
sauce pot, I wonder if I have sunk to the ultimate culinary low. No, I
remember. I feel better. I have a proud tradition to uphold.
My mother was
hospitalized. Another one of those girly surgeries, looming ahead…you know, the
ones that made her unable to conceive, according to her doctor. To that doctor’s
sheer mortification, and delight, Dad was now home with five hungry kids.
“Oatmeal. No one can
ruin oatmeal.” He declared to our delight. “Simple. Five kids, five cups of
water and oats.” My dad was a renaissance man, but he had not yet dipped his
toe in the culinary pond. He was ‘the provider’ still at this point. He brought
home plenty of bacon, but he had yet to ‘fry it up in a pan.’ The water came to
a boil.
“Wow, I have this
down. Why does Whiz complain about cooking all the time? This is so easy.” I
guess talking to myself is a genetic trait! He stirred in the oats, slowly,
because it was five cups and he only found the one cup measure.
“Huh, looks a little
thick. More water?” This time he was genuinely asking. He was asking children
ranged age one (me) to age 9.
 | |
| Georgie, and Mary's Ann, Louise, Elizabeth and Margaret... |
The pot was full. Dad
was confident, and intent on producing a worthy meal for his son and first four
daughters.
“Oops, we need a
bigger pot!”
He switched up one size. Not quite a spaghetti sauce size, but bigger than the first. It didn’t work. The oatmeal continued to thicken.
“Perfect, just one
more switch and we are good.”
Our eyes rolled back in our heads. Nothing was. Perfect. We were not even good. He was not good. That third pot, the big one…the one you only used for sauce, was brimming. He got another pot and did a half and half arrangement. This is where he gets credit for effort. It was a slight improvement, and that was when Dad had a stroke of genius.
Our eyes rolled back in our heads. Nothing was. Perfect. We were not even good. He was not good. That third pot, the big one…the one you only used for sauce, was brimming. He got another pot and did a half and half arrangement. This is where he gets credit for effort. It was a slight improvement, and that was when Dad had a stroke of genius.
He had observed that
if you thin the oatmeal and turn off the heat very quickly (he couldn’t leave
the first pot boiling while he was getting the second pot, or third or now
fourth), it will stop drying out.He adjusted the portions one last time...too much thinning caused him to add a few more dry oats. The battle continued until the perfect consistency was achieved.
His moment had arrived. He
felt he had it just right; he turned off both large pots. He left them on the
hot burners, which proceeded to crust up the pots for later cleaning, but that
was much later. Such a small issue compared to feeding us.
We were all served an
oatmeal-y-glue-like bowl of something that resembled Mom’s oats, but not
really. It was a suitable breakfast. And there were leftovers…a lot of leftovers. It was still good that
day for lunch, and a dinner. The next day, breakfast was quick and easy. Add a
glob of food to a hot pot, thin it out.
“Oatmeal, “vee o lah”!
(Note: I only learned last year the word was voilà! Dad never said it right. The
voice and hand gestures were decidedly French, though, surely enhancing the
taste of the meal.)
 | |
| Peg (Mary Margaret), weak with hunger in her baby chair~ |
By day five, Mom was
doing fine. But the oatmeal had run its course. Oh no, we weren’t out of it! It
was just starting to accumulate a rather pretty green fuzz Dad had to peel back
every time he needed to dig into the well of plenty.
Someone had the good
sense to complain. I’m guessing Louie. It was growing harder and harder to thin
the stuff. And we were all operating with baby teeth. We were now enjoying
Owen’s Oatmeal Nuggets. I’ll bet good money that Ray Kroc would have paid even
better money for that patent!
By dinner, there was a
solid mass. Undeterred, never defeated, my father the eternal optimist was once
again struck with an idea of epic significance. He over turned the pot onto a
plate. It was a serving platter, rectangular.
I think there may have
been a few dishes left to put away. Dad knew how to do dishes and so did
George, Annie and Louie. Mom ran a tight ship. Her kids were not slackers. So
the oatmeal, now ensconced on its platter settled into…a shape…a rectangle, to
be precise.
And thus, Oatmeal Loaf
was born. Dad sliced us all a healthy portion and we decorated it with maple
syrup faces. It was so much better this way! NOT. But it was more fun, and we
were temporarily distracted. We looked forward to lunch, and Dad, emboldened by his success was tackling spaghetti for dinner. Make that spaghetti, with
a monkey dish of oatmeal as an appetizer.
When dinner arrived, the oatmeal
starter was stirred around and ignored. Looking the other way, Dad presented, with the smile of a Cheshire Cat, Owen’s Spaghetti Dome. His audience of five looked on, curious. I blame Annie and George for forgetting to tell him about
the salt, the oil in the water, and how quickly pasta dries, like a fish out of
water.
Pie slice of “dome”, defrosted sauce, Parmesan, and a big round of grace were had for dinner. We had so much to be thankful
for…Mom was coming home tomorrow.
"So honestly, Peg…it’s only one little pot of oats with a little
crust on the bottom!"
I was writing. I got distracted. Which is a good thing, as
the self-proclaimed queen of all things household would say! Now I have lunch,
and breakfast for tomorrow. But tonight, I have a hankering for something else for dinner. It's beginning to look a lot like Spaghetti Dome.
