The
chilly cold autumn mornings have officially taken root here in my little neck of the Midwest. I find myself begrudging the vacated spot where I was curled up under my heavy blanket before my alarm and pending daybreak tore me away. My feet instinctually slide into waiting slippers, thwarting the chill of the cold, hard floor one step beyond. I wrap myself in the sweater that waits on the chair before turning on the lights and padding into the kitchen to pour myself a steaming mug of coffee. Before long, I'll have to flip that little switch on the thermostat to the "on" position; but I'm holding out for now.
On mornings like these, cold cereal just doesn't cut it. Yes, the lure of body-and-soul-warming, bone-sticking food has begun.
Who am I to fight it? Break out the porridge. Porridge. Isn't that a fantastic word? I didn't grow up referring to it as porridge, unless of course, I was reciting
Peas Porridge Hot or
Goldilocks and the Three Bears. Perhaps that's why it seems like a magical word to me; I associate it with the nursery rhymes and fables of my childhood.
