As I ate it, a memory sprang up – of a cold June morning in 2007 near Lassen Volcano National Park, in a cabin I'd rented for a trip I took with my dad. I made oatmeal for him that morning, because he was cold and wanted something warm inside him. I had maple syrup and dried currants, and a little half-and-half, all things he loved, so I mixed up a batch and passed it over. The memory was of his face as he ate it: pure delight in the cascade of flavors and textures. He wore an ear-to-ear smile, and slurped it all down, loudly – then asked for seconds.
I wish I could share my cereal with you this morning, dad. I know you'd love it...
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