It’s going on two weeks since I started to love on oatmeal, this fall. Like the seasons, my cravings come. I want Granma’s kitchen with Papa’s oatmeal and Mykey sneaking sugar out the jar next to the percolator. I want the smell of coffee and the sound of Granma saying, “Hi, ‘Tine,” when her best friend Westine calls.

I want her warm hands, the color of dark maple and smelling like bleach while she washes one more load, to wash my hair and sit me under a heating cap with eggs and mayonnaise for deep conditioning. I want to watch her sit with her long legs crossed at the knee, leaning back, watching the street go by with a Moore cigarette in her right hand, while Papa reads the Bible with a cheek full of snuff.

I want the smell of mothballs, because Granma always had them on top of the record player in a crystal bowl beneath her Philodendron and Creeping Charlie plants, next to seasonal cards and framed pictures. I want Granma to say, “Go lay ‘cross Mama’s bed, take you a good nap,” and for the sound of Aunts, Uncles, cousins to wake me up. I want to feel her afghan tucked around my shoulders, not knowing when she put it across me.

 

Oatmeal strengthens the heart. It carries cholesterol out of the blood, cleaning and filtering as it slowly digests. My arteries don’t battle cholesterol; instead, my heart is clogged with blue.

Often, my mind escapes. Floating to Granma’s house and old apartments I’ve lived in to touch walls and look out windows. I draw open curtains, close them back, sit on couches we use to have and lay across beds I once slept in. There is never anyone else there, but me. Except at Granma’s house. Everyone no more is there. Cousins and uncles and aunts and Grandaddy, Granma’s daddy, tall as trees. They all was tall as trees, Granma, her sisters, brother, and father.

Now they all gone. That is the plaque in my heart.

I can’t stop going places I and they have been, standing in rooms they’ve stood, cooking and eating in kitchens laughed and lived in. They are always laughing and talking old times, having a good time, reminding Granma about parties with jazz music. “Oh, Sasha Lee, you and Sylvester use to cut up,” Aunt Bey-Bey, tall and brown, says. Bey-Bey was the second sister to go, soon after Grandaddy, long after Sister. Then there was Brother, then Granma.

I listen and stand, wanting to cry and not wanting to. I don’t want to miss a thing while wiping my eyes over what nature and time has done. So, I laugh with Granma and try to imagine her and Papa dancing like I saw in pictures. She in lavender, him in slacks and thick black eyeglass frames. It looked like the Twist, and the family had cleared a spot next to my Uncle’s birthday cake. Mama was out of the shot, likely sitting with Daddy, then still alive. I was not there, but today I am always there—hearing the jazz, doing the twist, laughing at Granma and Papa dance before eating cake.

I need oatmeal for my heart. To make strong what aches. To feel like all us are gathered in Granma’s kitchen, looking at the walls Papa re-built, hearing the stories Granma tells, or laughing at Granma cutting up and mocking somebody. 

What if the things we craved were always the very things we need? And eating was not just calories for fuel but also vitamins for our soul.

Yesterday morning I wrote for six hours. Sixteen pages. The hardest part was walking away from the story. Telling the characters, “That’s enough for today.” I have grown to love them, and they have grown to trust their story to me. I think about them throughout the day. Just Sunday I was in the grocery store and heard a song Mimi wanted to dance to. I had the boy and E trying to Shazam it since I’d left my phone at home.

While I am writing their story I live with them. My way of letting them know I am in for the long haul. The more I allow them into my life, the more they trust their story to me.

 

Writing a novel requires faith. You must give yourself over and serve the story, the characters. When I have strong writing days like today, one thing always happens, I loose myself in giving my voice over to them.  

The story starts, I fade behind the screen and write what I see, what they tell me.

After the six hours my heart aches. I cry that Granma is not here and laugh because she does not rest alone. Her birthday just passed and I heard the furniture scrapping the parquet floor as they cleared a section. Her favorite color is blue; she’s wearing it, and doing the Twist with her sisters. They are loud and laughing, throwing their heads back, kicking out a foot and clapping hands near their hearts. They don’t call her Georgia, they say, “Gurl and Sasha Lee.” Grandaddy is still tall as trees and beautifully dark. His down-south accent remains, along with his brown fedora. Brother, the color of darkened red clay, is there. They are all there, having a good time now that Granma, the eldest, has come home.

I hope you like your granola subtly sweet. Not oily and sticky with syrup, but sweet enough to call you back for another bite. We’ve been eating this by the handfuls. With almond milk, applesauce, all on its own, while we wait for the fall chill. When those mornings come the kids will eat oatmeal, I will wash another load, and I’ll remind them that Granma gave each of them a nickname: Exoctics (with an ‘s’, her Southern way), for the girl, and 10 pounds (short for 10 lbs of sugar), for the boy. When they ask what was mine, because they always do, I’ll tell them she called me her ‘Baby Ki’ till the day she died.

 

Maple Almond and Pecan Spiced Granola

                                                                   for Granma and my blue heart                                                   

5 c. old-fashioned oats

1 c. puffed rice

½ c. puffed millet

1 c. almonds (roughly chopped)

1 c. pecans (roughly chopped)

1 tsp. salt

1 tbl. cinnamon

¾ of a whole nutmeg, freshly grated*

1/8 tsp. cardamom

½ c. brown sugar

½ c. pure maple syrup

½ c. coconut oil

1 tbl. water

1 tbl. vanilla

Directions:

Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Line a cookie sheet with parchment paper, lightly spray with coconut oil.

In a large bowl, mix together oats, rice, millet, nuts, salt and seasonings. Set aside. In a medium sized saucepan, combine brown sugar, syrup, oil, and water. Cook under medium heat until sugar melts and mixture starts to gently boil.

Pour syrup mixture over oats. Stir thoroughly, coating all the dry ingredients with the syrup. Pour the oats into the cookie sheet. Pat down and form an even, dense layer.

Bake for 10 minutes, rotate pan, and bake another 10-15 minutes. When the granola is evenly browned, pull from the oven and cool in the pan. (If you’d like to up the sweetness, sprinkle the warm granola with cinnamon sugar and freshly grated nutmeg.)

Once the granola is cool to the touch, break into large or smaller clusters, depending on your preference. If you’d like your granola well browned, return the clusters to the pan and bake for an additional 5-7 minutes, keeping a close watch. Granola burns quickly, so stay close and attentive.

Store in an airtight container, or for longer storage in the refrigerator.

Recipe Notes:

-You can increase the oil to as much as ¾ of a cup to make it crispier. If so, add more syrup and sugar (perhaps 3 tbl. each) to sweeten.

-You can substitute maple syrup partially or completely with other syrups. I haven’t tried, but I’m sure honey, agave, or brown rice syrup would work well.

-While warm the granola will appear soft and slightly sticky. As it cools it will crisp and dry. Feel free to wait till it completely cools before deciding to toast a second time. To speed up the cooling process, place a small handful in the refrigerator to cool and test.

-Cinnamon sugar: ½ c. sugar and 1 tbl. cinnamon. I prefer this ratio, but some like ¼ c. sugar and 1 tbl. cinnamon.

*Nutmeg is such a personal thing. I love it, so 1 tbl. of freshly grated nutmeg is barely enough. However, go with your taste. 1 tsp. to 1 tbl. is a good range. I always use fresh.

If you’ll stay tuned, another granola recipe will appear. With orange, almond, coconut and cranberries.

To print or view a PDF of this recipe, click here. 

Peace and Love,

Kiandra