This morning, Dear Richard said, “I’m making scrambled eggs. Want some?” He does this about three or four days a week. I accept his offer occasionally. Most winters, oatmeal is my game.

I like the quick variety – five minutes – from measuring the oats and water to the brown sugar sprinkled on top. Sometimes raisins make it into the mix, adding their puffed-up sweetness on the coldest January days.

The final step is a splash of half and half on top. Ah, yes, cozy, creamy oatmeal is an ideal winter gift to my tummy. A breakfast perfect for counting icicles while also wondering how much today’s snow will add to the foot already on the ground.

I didn’t always love oatmeal. In fact, I hated it as a kid.

My mother left for her day job at 6:45 a.m. My alarm on school days went off at 7. Wanting me to have a hot breakfast before my cold morning walk, she made oatmeal and left it in a double boiler on the stove. It was the perfect temperature and ideal consistency when I stumbled into the kitchen. The dreaded oatmeal awaited.

I gradually developed a method of disposal – an ingenious ruse to convince my mother that I had eaten it. First, I took the hot oatmeal off the warming pan so it would cool while I got washed and dressed. I’d swirl a small teaspoon of the cereal around in a bowl and add a tiny bit of milk. Then I’d leave the spoon with the “breakfast remnants” in the sink for her to see. The last thing I did before leaving was dump the now cold oatmeal lump from the pan into a brown lunch bag.

It took me a while to figure out what to do with it. If I put it in the wastebasket, Mom might find it. If I put it in the garbage can outside, the landlady might see it and squeal on me. If I plopped it into the toilet, it might back it up and I didn’t want any part of that problem. My imagination ran riot with all the ways I could get caught.

I knew throwing it away was wrong. First, the waste. My Yankee mother would NOT be happy about the waste. Secondly, I was keenly aware that she got up extra early each day to make it. Mom was dog tired most nights, collapsing into bed after midnight following her night job.

I felt enormous guilt, just not enough to eat that glop. Mom had previously tried Cream of Wheat, Cream of Rice, and Maltex on me, all to negative reviews. By the time she started on oatmeal, I realized that there was no way out of the cooked cereal dilemma. So, I didn’t say anything. Eight-year-old guilt is real, so I was stuck with the mush.

I started hiding it in my desk. Mom had given me a small roll-top desk for my bedroom when I started school. If I wrapped the oatmeal bag tightly, I could fit two in each of the small cubicles. Eventually, the three drawers down the right side held six or seven bags each. Then I had to stack them in the main writing space. I was careful to pull down the roll-top cover each day, but it was getting crowded. All my school stuff was stashed under my bed or in my underwear drawer.

“I smell something really strange in the hall, and even in the bathroom,” Mom said. They were both right outside my room. “Do you smell it?” Gulp. No, I didn’t. She was hot on the trail. I opened my bedroom window after school, closing it before she came home from work.

One weekend, my mother and her brother were having coffee and working on his business budget. Uncle Chet broke the pencil he was using. She offered, “Check in Marcy’s desk. She always has pencils.” He returned with a few moldy bags and no pencil. “What is this?” he asked. It took her a minute to figure out what the rotten bags held.

When I got home from sledding, she asked, “Have you had trouble using your desk lately?”

Caught. I assumed she would be furious, and the blubbering tears came immediately. I confessed all, begging forgiveness.

Incredibly, she wasn’t mad. “Well, now I won’t have to get up so early. I just wish I had the sleep back.” She actually smiled. “We do have to clean out this disgusting mess.” I wound up scrubbing the desk’s interior, gagging a lot, and promised never to hide food again. I did make an exception for Milky Ways.

The fact that I love oatmeal today surprises me. But, I buy it by the large container, knowing my winter mornings will be tasty, warm, and cozy. Mmmm. Life is good.

Marcy O’Brien writes from Warren.