Ode to Oatmeal

Warm oatmeal. With a flavor of cinnamon and a soupcon of apples. Apples or some synthetic thing that tastes of apples. Warm damp sawdust after it has been cooked for a while. Oddly satisfying. And filling too. Maybe it continues to bubble in the stomach much in the same way as it does in the microwave. Bubble and rise and fill up an emptiness that good food refuses to sate.

Because good food is a hedonic dream. Much like first love. Heady, dizzying, beautiful .Melting mouthful after mouthful. Refusing to sate, to fulfill. And then suddenly it is gone. And only the greasy remains on empty plates- and the lingering aromas of herbs are left. Left to mockingly taunt when one cleans up the feast. Put away the plates, clear up. Clean up. Along with the guilt of having indulged. Of having pandered to the tongue, listening yet not listening to the brain. Just one will not make a difference. But it does, it so does matter. And the “good” rarely stays on. Just the emptiness of unfulfilled desires.

And so one returns to safety. To warm sawdust tastes. To the feeling of having done something for yourself after having conquered the taste buds. Because in life, like in food and love….what matters is the outcome not the process.