A Maiden's Breakfast: An Oatmeal Recipe

It must have stormed last night, because I can already sense the moisture in the dark morning air. The trees with autumn leaves are set with raindrops as a table laid for supper, dotted in the middle with a disc of water.

I wake with the morning rooster. I sit up in bed and arch my back, wanting to linger in a moment before I am technically working. I wash my face with water from last night’s basin. I brush my hair, realizing it is now long enough to cascade all the way down to my lower back. I braid the heavy-weighted locks in a single braid. Everyone knows a braid is the most powerful hairstyle a woman can have. I lace my corset. Bloomers. Stockings. Charcoal grey work dress. Apron. Lastly, I tie my ribbon-bonnet under my chin, shrugging after noticing it is my spare bonnet with a small hole by the ear. There's no color in my eyes, outfit, or skin. I am the servant, not the girl waiting for the moment her life really begins in a book. It’s a relief to relinquish yourself from the idea of success outside of pleasing your eccentric master that has a pet bird. It is a rather unusual day, though, because today I have a small vial of arsenic in my apron pocket to really spice up master’s porridge.

It is the stable hand’s day to fetch the water, so I can start the porridge before the old bachelor wakes. Although I do not believe in the glorification of murder, I do believe in the empowerment of women, so this recipe is for all those people who have ever felt slighted but enjoy the importance of a good breakfast:

First, you need: instant oatmeal (brown sugar maple is the real girl) or if you would like to express yourself by your commitment to The Craft (1996) make a batch of steel cut. I like the instant brown sugar maple, because that is what Aldi actually has stocked. The maple and brown sugar save you a topping step and make the meal a little ooeier and gooeier.

Then, you peer into your ice chest and evaluate your fruit selection. In the summer, you may have a nice satchel of blueberries, a nice tote bag of strawberries, a nice cosmetic case of blackberries even. Maybe you like to dance with the devil and buy raspberries. Maybe you have mango and you will be able to conjure superhuman powers of joy and happiness in that golden honeysuckle satisfaction. An apple of the crispy variety in the autumn. What have you.

Prepare a knife for slicing. A surface to be sliced upon.

Locate a small glass or ceramic, microwaveable bowl. Rip the packet of instant oats in one clean stroke. Dump the contents into the pottery. Add two espresso shots of water. Some do milk. Some do half and half. Align your choices with your digestive history.

Microwave for one minute.

During that minute, chop your desired fruit to appropriate spoonable sizes. You could contemplate how the man you work for is inconsiderate and knowingly underpays you. You could queue a new podcast. You could count to sixty and then cut the fruit when the timer rings out. You could think about how your name is Bertha and you also live in an attic. Make a mental note to sue Charlotte Brontë.

Once you retrieve your warmed bowl of mush. It’s time to decorate!

You press the cut fruits gently into the mashed oats with the delicacy of a mother patting her baby on the head. You arrange the berries to spell something rude, just between yourself and the porridge. All the fruit tumbles into the bowl through telekinesis. You add cinnamon. Honey. A world famous drag queen of Russian proclivity offers an indulgent idea of “Medjool date to get wild” or granola or chia seeds or cashews in her oatmeal in her co-authored book on womanhood. That’s the true beauty of the display of oatmeal: you can mix and match!

You plunge your spoon into the meal you have generously and effortfully labored over. You cherish each sweet bite. And you smile while you listen to Dolly Parton’s “9 to 5,” immediately followed by Sheena Easton’s “Morning Train (Nine to Five).” Enjoy!

I finish my whole bowl, scraping the sides to miss no tender morsel. I want to be full before I inevitably have to run from the law this afternoon.

I go to feed the bird in the parlor. It’s very quiet, so that’s how you know it’s really early that even that dimwit is not flapping about.

I clean the kitchen. Dust the dining room. Open the drapes. Replicate my recipe for my employer with a healthy vial of arsenic to top it off.

The old man is seated for breakfast by the next hour. The tea cools as he frowns over the paper and eats his meal.

I soak my bonnet in sweat, waiting for him to pass out. The old fool returns to his daily tomfoolery. I watch him read in his study, play on his stock-trading app, take a turn about the grounds, and all the boring things that he normally does. He doesn’t even die once all day!

I realize the arsenic must have been counterfeit. Turns out, peddlers on unicycles in long battered jackets don't always sell you premium products.

The good news is: I think the bird is dead. I forgot to feed him all of last week.

There’s probably not luxury oatmeal with bountiful fruit and toppings in prison, anyway.