Cereal: (n) a breakfast food made from roasted grain
When I was a child, I ate as a child. Now that I’ve become a man, I’ve put away good taste.
As a boy, breakfast was sweet cereal. I had many favorites. My choices were layered–there were those cereals I begged for at the grocery
store, but my mom refused to buy because they were too expensive (though she insisted it was because of the sugar content).
I ate those varieties when I stayed overnight at my friends’ house. For the record, Lucky Charms were magically delicious. And if you’re going to spend some time with Captain Crunch, make sure he’s peanut butter flavored.
Then there were the cereals my mother would buy, which were sweet enough for me to be tantalized. Sugar Smacks. And one of my personal favorites–Honeycomb, which I would describe as very sweet air.
But my mother preferred Raisin Bran, Puffed Wheat (because it was cheap) and Life cereal.
I remember throwing a tantrum for nearly fifteen minutes because I was required to consume a bowl of Life cereal. I explained to my mother that there was something wrong with the concoction–that it tasted rotten, fermented, or maybe even poisoned. She disagreed, citing Good Housekeeping’s approval.
Then one day–oh, and it was sudden–I woke up and became an adult, and started considering the nastiness of nutrition.
No one has actually proven that fiber, vitamins, minerals or oat bran actually lengthen your life. Perhaps it just makes you feel like you live longer. But now I check the fiber on the side of the cereal box instead of whether there’s a prize inside.
Something is missing.
Something is amiss.
I miss something.