Wednesday 11th September

As a child I took porridge for granted.  In the summer we had Corn Flakes, or Weetabix, and as soon as the chill winds of Autumn started to blow it would be porridge .  My mum taught me how to make it.  Two and a half (if you want it thick) or 3 cups of cold water, and one of porridge oats.  Put in a saucepan and stir constantly in a figure of eight with a wooden spoon until it starts thickening and then erupting like lava from a volcano.  Turn the heat down and continue stirring for five more minutes.   Pour into a bowl and stir in dark brown muscavado sugar until it is all melted.  Delicious.

I was horrified to discover that the Scots, who apparently invented porridge (though a variant is eaten in all parts of the globe) add salt and NEVER sugar.  Others apparently make it with milk.  YUCK.

I used to make porridge for my son too.  It was and still is the perfect start to those cold winter mornings.  I still have it occasionally, when time permits.

And now they have all manner of microwaveable junk that pretends to be porridge.  They even sell individual pots, (as Frank Zappa used to remark – just add hot water, it makes its own sauce) which look even more disgusting.  I have never tried this instant variety.  I am a stickler for the old school of real oats and water, and that secret ingredient, muscavado sugar, which if not stirred in completely leaves a dark slick of pure brown lusciousness at the bottom of the bowl.  Even better.

Nowadays I mostly have an almond croissant as my sugar-rush breakfast, but all around me I see the rebirth of porridge.  Young women and men too have suddenly discovered porridge, here they are on all sides of me, indulging in thick gloopy porridge with honey or sugar sprinkled on top.  Strangely I don’t fancy joining them.  Maybe I need the anticipation of cooking it for maximum enjoyment.