Yep, I’m showing you a picture of what I had for breakfast.
Your day is now complete.
But there’s actually more to the story than my bowl of oatmeal for breakfast, counting 1:26 p.m. as breakfast time because it can be when you’re unemployed. Time has new meaning, Reader, because there is no mandatory bedtime.
But that’s not the story.
The story is that every time I make oatmeal, I think about my grandmother Sophie always calling them “Mother’s Oats.” As a kid, I could never understand what the hell a mother’s oat was, and what sort of mother they came from. This was before the Internets existed, way way way a long time ago, before you could ask Almighty Google what the fuck a Mother’s Oat was and which part of the mother it came from.
So my little kid brain put this scenario together: They were squeezed from the nipples of goats. Goat’s obviously made sense, because Goat —> Oat – get it?? From Mother Goats only. So the oats came out of there dry, and then other nipples would give you the goat milk.
And ever since, every time I make oatmeal, I hear Sophie’s voice talking about making “Mother’s Oats” and I see mama goat nipples squeezing out my breakfast for me.
There. Now you, too, get to enjoy more of the nonsense that rattles around in my brain. And I’ve just taught you something. I’m not sure what exactly. But you probably have questions, and that’s the role of every good teacher, to leave you asking questions. Your question may be, “Why?? Why did I just read this and waste thirty seconds of my life that I’ll never get back?” Or your question may be, “Why didn’t I know that oats came from goats? Wait, do they come from goats? I”m confused now, too.”
I’m not here to answer your questions, Reader. I’m only here to confuse you. And NOW your day is complete.