Regardless of the Oatmeal Blowout

This day began like any typical Maui day. Wait—a typical day doesn’t exist on Maui, so I can say that my day started as expected.

The palm trees waved their good mornings, and the birds called as they do at daybreak. It made me smile, stretch, and pause at the window to drink in the fantastic tropical display.

The morning mostly screeched downhill at a rapid pace from there.

My slippers edged up to the kitchen island, and I was soundly distracted by the frothy overnight sourdough leaven silently awaiting development into loaves of bread. I’m aware that on bread baking day, my mind stagnates, then bounces between preoccupied and creative. Perhaps it’s the aroma of flour and yeast?

As the birds chirped, the thought of baking bread transported my mind to a most charming French bakery. In this bakery shop vision, my husband and I sat at the window and held cups of coffee that beckoned a sip. A basket of cinnamon scones graced the center of the antique table, accompanied by meticulously folded, crisp cloth napkins. Bicyclers passed by the storefront with only the sound of wheels on cobblestone. Is that French music?

I blinked. Sorry for the diversion— back to my never-typical Maui morning.

So— the oatmeal is tossed in the boiling water. A quick stir, and the lid is set. I pondered what to serve with the morning oatmeal today and settled on banana, chopped nuts, brown sugar, and toast.

A slight pout formed. I regretted my decision to not bake the bread yesterday. That bread would be the perfect offset to this morning’s oatmeal, topped with a dollop of jam. I glanced at the recipe propped on the counter to refresh my memory of the loaves’ rising schedule and closed my eyes to ponder.

It was a high-pitched sizzle sound that initially alerted my senses. My attention snapped to the burning aroma at the cooktop.

Let me explain. I have prepared oatmeal hundreds of times over the years. I had not placed a lid on the pot until today— on this never-typical Maui morning.

With sudden alarm, my arms flailed about without direction until instinct took over. My hand swiftly shut off the gas burner and moved the still bubbling, exploded pot to a cool burner. I had two messes, and the initial oatmeal blowout splatter was baking to a dark crust on the turned-off-but-still-hot burner.

A tight shrug and long sigh escaped without warning. I defeatedly stared at the flowered, oatmeal-covered potholder and turned to the remnants of my formerly perfect pot of oatmeal and cooktop disasters.