Kate Oliverのインスタグラム(birchandpine) - 7月14日 23時45分

When I was young, or even later, when I’d come home from college, my dad would come wake me, early in the morning. The house was quiet and dark, my sisters and mother still sleeping, along with the sun.
He made us oatmeal on these mornings, with brown sugar and milk and butter, and toast with butter, no jam. Jam would ruin it, we decided. Orange juice, always, but not coffee, because neither he nor I would begin to drink it until years later.
Now when he comes to visit, as he did this week to help us work, I make the oatmeal. I don’t eat it any longer, but my daughter does. So I made the oats for them, and the sausages for Ellen and I, and watched the routine, the dance of the oatmeal breakfast, another generation, at my tiny breakfast table in my tiny house.

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