Cold oatmeal. Charlie made it hot on the stove, taking the familiar blue-hat red box, dropping a ½ cup into the old-fashioned oats, grain dust popping a static-cling to the cup’s edge. Indiscriminately, he dropped a cup of water into the copper-clad pot along with the oats. A quick stir, he set blue flame to medium.
Once blue lit up, Charlie set about putting together the rest. Fresh fruit of the season, this time of the year embracing apples, would litter oatmeal. Slicing a Granny Smith thin, he set it aside, piling up the pieces side-by-side ground cinnamon and honey. Almonds remained whole.
photo by Daniel Agee. All rights reserved.
Can’t stand slices or slivers. Can’t stand processed chop.
Rosy listened to him. Not too intently as she knew no matter what, no oatmeal was coming her way. An occasional apple slice flew off the counter. Charlie’s eyes couldn’t follow the tawny piece as it hit the oak. Less a prize than a function of being the house vacuum, Rosy stealthily snatched it up before Charlie could turn.
William Penn stated two minutes, but two was a standard. Charlie had been told many years ago the face on the box couldn’t be William Penn, but the person bloated with useless information informing him of this fact was not one Charlie ever took to heart. Other than Grade A semen, his former father-in-law, a divorce attorney good enough to get married four times and never lose any property, was essentially useless. Partial to pomposity, the man taught Charlie one essential lesson – those who insisted on being the center of attention often corner themselves with audacious inaccuracy. Read the rest of this page »
