I reckon Goldilocks would like it at my house, and not because the bed is comfortable and not because the chair doesn’t shatter into kindling when you sit on it.
No, I reckon she’d like it because the porridge is just right – and it hasn’t got the bits of shattered chair in it that have flown across the room.
When I was a sulky teenager I thought that porridge for your breakfast was something that only old people had and now that I am officially an old person and I have porridge for my breakfast but I can also tell you that younger people are having porridge too and that maybe, just maybe, I’ve been a trendsetter for all these years and that perhaps I should be recognised as such.
My dad liked bacon and eggs for his breakfast but every now and then he had porridge but, being from Scotland, he put salt on it, which as far as I’m concerned is like putting salt on your rice pudding. The two don’t mix.
Let’s face it though: there’s something primal and satisfying about the idea of a bowl of steaming hot porridge, particularly now that the nights are really drawing in and there’s an autumnal chill in the air that makes me want to seek out my scarf and my hat.
That’s why my dad had salt on his porridge: it reminded him of his childhood on the farm in the Scottish borders when a good big dollop of porridge would give you strength for all that milking and planting and harvesting and whatever else you do on a farm. You can tell I’m not an expert on farms.
What I really like about porridge is that every time I make it it’s a little bit different to the time before and in that regard it’s like the Yorkshire puddings I make every Sunday.
The pudding makers amongst you will know that the glorious thing about the Yorkshire pudding is that you can never tell how it will come out.
You put the same ingredients in the bowl in the same order. The oven is as hot as it always is. The fat is sizzling. But the Yorkshires come out as flat as beermats or as floppy as chef hats.
It’s the same with porridge: I do the same thing every time but the porridge is always slightly different. It’s not as though I make it in a pan over a wood fire either: I make it in the microwave which should guarantee the same result every time, but believe me it doesn’t.
I leave it for two minutes until the ding! And then when it comes out it’s sometimes in liquid form and sometimes it’s in solid form. I guess if I left it in for a bit longer it would be in gaseous form, and Goldilocks wouldn’t like that. It wouldn’t float her spoon, as they say in porridge-making circles.
Mind you, I regard the bowl of porridge, whether solid or liquid, as a blank canvas that I can display my artistic skills on. Porridge on its own can be as bland as bland can be but porridge with additions: well now you’re talking, Daddy Bear!
Let’s get the banana. Let’s slice the banana with a sharp knife so thinly that it seems like, if you put the banana back together again just using the slices, it would be shorter than the original banana. Let’s get a couple of dried figs and cut them in half and then let’s stand at the other end of the kitchen and try to chuck them into the bowl. If I manage to do it, which isn’t very often, I turn my back and try to chuck them in the bowl.
Let’s get a couple of prunes and chuck them in. If they sink that’s a good sign; if they float on top that’s a good sign. Let’s get a couple of apricots and chuck them in so that they look like setting suns at the edge of a grey sky.
Brazil nuts. Get the Brazil nuts out, lad. I love nuts but Brazil nuts are my favourite. The exquisite shape, the exquisite taste. Chuck ‘em in! Get the tub of mixed nuts and all, while you’re at it: them filberts and walnuts. Chuck ‘em in, McMillan. Chuck ‘em in!
Wow, that looks good. But not as good as it’s going to taste. Lob a spoonful of stewed apple in just for fun.
