One morning in hospital, I had a bowl of porridge. I ate it all, considering each tiny spoonful. And then I remembered why it was that people liked to eat food, something I had forgotten for a few days. When I got out, I had porridge almost every morning for the month in which I was convalescing, trying to reconstruct the hospital kitchen's recipe. I do not know if I found it, but I did find out a lot about oats and water and what heat and time can do to them, the many variations of processes, grains and additions, and the place of porridge in memories and traditions. I will collect some of these recipes and thoughts over thirty-one posts, one for each day of that month. I will try to post at least once a week.
My other blog gives some idea of my non-porridge interests.