Butterscotch Oatmeal

A little stroll down culinary memory lane. Here is the recipe I googled and my half-recipe modification:

1/2 cup of old-fashioned oats
3/4 cup of milk
1 large egg
1/4 cup of brown sugar
1 T butter

Combine all but the butter in a large microwave-safe bowl or measuring cup [mine holds a quart]. Whisk until blended, and nuke on high in 30-second increments until you have the consistency you like. Stir in the butter. Serve in a latte cup with more milk, or not. You end up with something resembling the love child of tapioca and oatmeal. Hot, filling, and with a bit more protein than an ordinary bowl of oatmeal.

My best friend when the girls was small, used to fix this. I learned to make it with vats of milk and a whole stick of butter, entirely appropriate when you have a houseful of small tricycle motors underfoot. I sat on the couch in front of the fireplace at breakfast yesterday, feet up, savoring one bite after another while listening to Sticks and String. David’s essay on the chattiness of folks when one is knitting in public brings up points I hadn’t considered, which are both entertaining and valid. If you’re not listening to him on a regular basis, you are missing out. [And the musical selection yesterday had both bagpipes and dulcimer, woohoo!]

More puttering yesterday, before and after church. Nothing so strenuous as to be considered laboring on the Sabbath. My inner Pharisee never let out a peep. I moved my [still empty] water storage barrels closer to the back door and put the 72-hour kit between them and the makeshift shelves alongside the fridge. I scooted the box of books and photo albums into my room. I put the shower curtain rod, which had slipped a few weeks [months?] back, into place and rehung the shower curtain, which I may end up trashing and replacing with the one I took out of LittleBit’s bathroom when we moved. I rarely take showers; I prefer long soaks in the tub, the kind that turn your fingers and toes into pink raisins and inspire “eureka!” moments and occasionally send paperbacks to a watery grave.

After church, I knitted for an hour or so while listening to the new KnitPicks podcast and some from her archives. When I dozed off, I had maybe half an inch to go if I chose to use my preferred toe decrease recipe rather than the one specified in the pattern; otherwise I had another inch and a half of K3P1 ribbing before I could gallop merrily to the end. Channeling my inner Cyndi Lauper: socks just want to be done. Oh, socks just want to be done! [How on earth can she be a year younger than I am? Both of us eligible for AARP. Scary!]

I took another of those “forever” naps yesterday afternoon and woke up about 8:30, hungry as a bear and a little disoriented. Dark outside. What day is it? Did I oversleep my alarm? Did I go to church today? Do I still have a job? Will I be able to sleep some more before the alarm goes off? How much knitting can I get done? Your inner voice may tell you that you are not enough of this or too much of that; my inner voice is a GPS navigator with a craft obsession and a craving for dark chocolate.

I nuked a frozen salmon fillet with some lemon juice and herbes de Provence, all wrapped up in a sheet of parchment. Yum! Had a slice of the chocolate cherry bread I picked up last weekend, for dessert. Double yum! Listened to the first CD of the next audiobook and put another half inch on the January Mystery Socks. Started the second CD and the toe decreases on the first sock; rather than work both socks at once, I fiddled with the needles until I had one sock on each needle. When I went back to bed around 2:00 this morning, I had done another quarter-inch or so. From here on out it should go quickly, and the second sock after that, once I transfer it over to these needles.

Yes, I know that the Stripedy Stockings took nearly nine months, more off than on, but once I finished beading the cuffs these have seemed like the socks that never end. And they go on and on, my friend... But they may very well be finished before bedtime tonight, particularly if I spend the evening at the laundromat.

I’m heading out to the kitchen to whip up an omelette and ogle my amazingly uncluttered floor.