Most people have a signature dish. It is something they season just right. They proudly set it on the table as if to say, This is who I am. It is presented in a bowl or on a plate. I’ve never quite been that person.
Cooking, for me, has always been more of an improvisation than a performance. I open the fridge, gather whatever looks willing to cooperate, toss it together, and call it a meal. No recipes. No fuss. No grand declarations. Just nourishment.
But there is one quiet ritual that has become the heartbeat of my mornings. One thing I make with devotion that surprises even me. You ask me what my favorite thing to cook is. I won’t point you toward a dinner entrée. Nor will I point you toward a holiday specialty. I’ll point you toward a simple bowl that starts my day with warmth and intention.
Oatmeal.
Not the plain, hurried kind. I mean my oatmeal—the bowl that feels like a small ceremony. I stir the oats until they thicken just right. Then, I layer in the things that make it feel like comfort and vitality at the same time. I add a drizzle of honey, a sprinkle of chia seeds, and a dusting of flaxseed. I also include a handful of pecans and a few raisins for sweetness and memory. It’s humble, but it’s also everything.
freedup7 