In the London rat race, I was a convert to the wonderful Monmouth coffee shop on the corner of Borough Market. I was back there recently, two years after my last appearance, resurrected in their ultra efficient queuing system. And they remembered me! Unheard of in London, I was thrilled.
But then I paused, and wondered, does that make me like the old drunk at the bar; pub and punter dependent on each other? Not valued but quietly mocked and pitied for my dependency?
Well, no more. I have porridge. All those oats and milk, I actually have long lasting energy in the morning. Porridge is now a strange necessity; once you have it regularly you can't live a morning without it and energy wise kicks a croissant dans les noisettes. However it doesn't look, sound or even taste inspiring on its own. It really is just mushy cardboard.
But. If you grow your own fruit then ha! you can get all creative on it's papery ass.
Earlier in spring I was chucking in the raspberries with abandon, all strong and intense. But as the harvest died away I had to turn elsewhere. To my blackcurrants. I had never eaten a fresh whole blackcurrant before. It's worth the investment in pot, canes and compost for that moment alone.
In porridge though it's like fireworks, a popping candy type experience as you get constant unexpected hits of flavour changing with each chew (yes I chew porridge, and once bit my tongue so badly I couldn't speak properly for a fortnight).
I currently (no pun intended) have enough to last a few weeks of gurt lush breakfasts, as they say in Brizzle. But to my surprise and hope this morning, my raspberry plant appears to be gearing itself up for a fresh batch.
Hallelujah
