On Eating Oatmeal

994 Words4 Pages
In the days of people's lives being extended years my miracle drugs and space probes leaving our solar system to explore deep space, no one has come up with a substitute for every child's foe, oatmeal. I remember one rainy, November Monday. It was the kind of day when I would rather have stayed underneath warm blankets listening to the furnace kick in with a whoosh of warm, slightly musty air, than drag my young (I was only six) tired old bones out of bed to get ready for school. I dressed in my favorite forest green turtleneck, brown sweater vest and maroon corduroy pants. Having reached the pinnacle of fashion with my outfit, I was feeling much better about the day. I glided effortlessly down the steps like Fred Astaire towards the kitchen and did a couple of spins, as kids are wont to do when they are happy. As I entered the kitchen and saw what lay there on the table, I heard screaming in the background. After a moment or two I realized it was me. I don't know how the unmistakable wet tree bark fetor of oatmeal had gone undetected by me until it was too late, but I made my feet promise to make up for my treacherous nose and get me out of the kitchen into safe territory. As I turned to make my escape I felt a familiar and incredibly crushing grip on my shoulder. "Not so fast, buster . You have to sit down and eat some breakfast before you go anywhere," said my Mom. "Et tu, Brute," I mumbled under my breath to my feet as I trudged to the kitchen table. My mother scooped oatmeal into a bowl the size of Texas, until it was full to the brim, and set it down in front of me. I couldn't help thinking that the molten mass contained in that bowl looked like a steaming gray cow pie. I knew then I must put my wits to work to get out of this predicament. I lied. "Uh, Mommy, last night the monster from under my bed came and told me never to eat oatmeal or he would
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