ITALICS FOR BREAKFAST
Stretched across the bottom of the menu in sprawling italicized font, virtually imperceptible to the untrained eye it says: Oatmeal, served until 11 am. What kind of self-loathing Californian hippie health trend need to poop biddy goes to a greasy spoon pancake house and orders mother fucking OATMEAL ?????????
ME:
Seriously, on such a colorful and chaotic menu in a colorful and chaotic restaurant the only reason you would see this item is if you go looking for it, and now is when I tell you that my stopped up constipated little booty body went looking for it. I’ve been curious about the oatmeal for some time now. I wanted to order it one time when I went to the Golden House with my cynical long-time friend Lucas Baisch but as soon as I mentioned that he said: “You can eat Oatmeal at home. Get something else.” And that day I did. Because often I am about as spineless as a bowl of squishy oats.
But this last visit to Golden House, I got Oatmeal.
Sometimes you don’t always want the six eggs with a side of cardiac arrest. Sometimes you don’t want fluffy diabetes. Sometimes you wake up and you just want something that goes down so easy you barely have to chew, and out so easy you spend the rest of the day wearing loose fitting pants. Sometimes you say all of this because you mean it and sometimes you say all of this because you’e been ingrained to think it by the people who raised you and who were ingrained to think it by the people who raised them. My mom spent a lot of her life going from diet to diet, over eating and then skipping meals. My grandma grew up in the great depression, probably had some unprocessed body image issues of her own, and to this day claims three spinach leaves to be a “Huge Lunch” My sister was in town and we both talked about what it would be like if our parents, and our grandparents didn’t instill in us such a crazy relationship to health and food. We did this while feeling guilty about getting very full on Mexican breakfast at Primo Chuki’s on Lawrence:
However, when I say “I liked the oatmeal”; truly, I am only partially lying. I liked the warmth and steam emitting from the bowl in the cold Novemeber morning. I liked how it was served with a cup of milk and three little containers of honey.
Most of all I liked just having a slow Monday morning, where Bill and I weren’t working and could sit comfortably in these bright red booths and plan out our day.
And I know it’s not just me and my sister and my family. We could also wonder what circumstances would be like if we weren’t women or weren’t raised upper middle class in America or even riddled with allergies that keeps us on a strict diet in order to live. Then what would I order at The Golden Pancake House? I don’t know. All I know is that one day I’ll tell Lucas that I liked the Oatmeal. I liked it. But I liked the side of eggs and the maple sausage that Bill didn’t want and let me have even more.
