“Mama said there’d be days like this, days like this, my mama said”. The song writer who penned this must have had a mate like mine.

I wonder if hyper sensitivity is the flip side of the genius coin. Yesterday, he told me he didn’t like the unusually large raisins that I bought (they were on special at the same price as the Thompson seedless).  This morning, he said he didn’t like the smidgen of cinnamon I’d put in his oatmeal, after a conversation we had had about the health benefits of cinnamon (he says he likes cinnamon desserts but not for breakfast, though yesterday, he loved the fried bananas WITH lots of cinnamon and cheese blintzes I made for breakfast). So, I’m going back to the original recipe: one cup steel-cut oats, four cups water. It’s better to dump it into boiling water, cover, and let it sit overnight because the slightest overcooking renders it inedible. I’m not complaining; it’s far simpler than the cereal I cook for myself.

My conglomeration begins with a nine-grain mix and gets more interesting with each ingredient that follows. Into the pot goes flax seed, salt, sunflower seeds, cinnamon, and hemp seeds. Then it’s topped with walnuts or pecans, raisins, craisins, dried cherries, dried blueberries, and any suitable fresh fruit I have ripe in the kitchen.

God forbid this man ever goes to prison or experiences being stranded on a desert island! He would starve to death in three days. And don’t even THINK about hiding him in an attic to evade detection by the Nazis. His stream of consciousness flows through his vocal chords spontaneously and he snores like a freight train. The Gestapo would hear him a block away.

We joke about the pea under the mattress because the slightest irregularity in a seam, a fragrance, a spice, is unbearable. And yet, he rarely complains about my farts, wet dogs, burnt toast, or mismatched linens. Go figure.