"It's A Porridge Morning"

Note: I can now receive email at both my addy's. The one posted here is a yahoo account (just in case), and the other one, well, I had to fiddle and fart around with stuff, and finally got it to work with Netscape. Outlook Express is pooched. So now I will digress again. ____________________________________________________________________________________ As a dutiful daughter, I always manage to take the time to call my "chromosome donors" in the morning. Especially this winter, when the snow has not yet slid from the steel roof of cottage, cabin or garage . When the snow does finally give way, God help my parents, if they are standing under it. So, I like to check if they are still mobile and intact, and not buried under an avalanche of snow and ice. ( I would hate to not get an answer on the phone, and trek up to see what's wrong. Then unearth my Dad from the snow. I can just imagine digging away, and suddenly, just his eyes would emerge from the mound. No nose or face, but just the eyes. Blink. Blink.) I have asked them if it might be an idea to construct reinforced steel hats, shaped like large pyramids, that would deflect the snow, if it did fall down on them. They do not want to take my advice. My father informed my mother during THE CONFERENCE CALL that it was a "porridge morning ". I gather that he wanted something substantial to stick to his ribs. As I recall, "porridge mornings" up at the cottage, when it was a cottage, and not a full time residence, was fraughtwith horror. My Grandmother (Nana) would force my brother and I, or any other cousins that happened to be around to ingest porridge. This was not the "run of the mill" (pardon the pun) goop. This was her idea of what would be nutritious, and keep us out of the cottage for as long as possible. We were told "it will put hair on your chest". For my Grandmother's recipe a small amount of oats was added to a copious amount of Red River (very grainy), and banana's, and if we were really unlucky. . .raisins (which became bloated). This concoction, when finished was like eating gravel and something slimy. The banana's took on a character that tasted like the fruit, but was more of a sludge. There was no way of averting the porridge, and we couldn't hide it anywhere. The only way to eat the concoction was to make sure that there was a huge glass of liquid beside you, that would water down the offending slop which loomed before you. So, on an oatmeal note, I just finished baking 48 oatmeal and berry muffins. A dozen of which I am going to send with the girls skiing. I feel so domestic, or is that domesticated?