Skipping Dessert … and taking the stairs

I never did think that I would feel

toward a weekend breakfast

such profound zeal.

Each morning meal I know will last,

will warm my belly and fill my needs

for true nutrition and body fuel.

With berries blue  from fields of weeds,

friends, this is a meal, not some thin gruel!

I top it off with the seed of the walnut tree

and unrefined cane sugar, brown,

then cook with milk, I feel such glee.

When I travel I can’t wait to get back to town

to get my body back on track.

Oatmeal, oatmeal, you keep my weight loss in the black.

—

Yeah, I just composed a sonnet to oatmeal.  In case you lost track, it’s a Shakespearean ababcdcdefefgg form.  My iambic pentameter, however, is way out of practice.

Seriously, I look forward to my weekend oatmeal all week.  I mean, the Cheerios and frozen blueberries, I love those.  But my weekend oatmeal, man.  That’s good stuff.

I remember talking to a friend many years ago who was in the midst of kind of a crash diet.  I remarked on how excited he was about his caesar salad with plain grilled chicken.  He told me – deadpan – “You have no idea how good plain chicken tastes if  you’re starving yourself.”  To this day I don’t know if he was kidding.

I’m manifestly not starving myself, but I kind of know how he felt.  There’s no other good reason for me to be so excited about my weekend oatmeal.

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