In the 1960s, granola
was code for anti-war. We women
gathered in kitchens wearing granny glasses
and long skirts, while the men hunkered outside
by the hand-built illegal yurt deep in the forest,
trying to decide if they should evade the draft.
We used only natural ingredients, butter
fresh churned, organic oats, walnuts gathered last fall
and carefully saved, and honey [white sugar was akin to cursing].
We stirred our granola in great cast iron pots with wooden spoons,
adding vanilla at the very last moment. The smell hung in
the air like a promise of peace.
I remember those days when I have breakfast.
I still make my own granola on the stovetop,
pan-roasted, crunchy old-fashioned rolled oats;
my tongue delights in the sweet snap of brown sugar,
salty cashews and dried cranberries,
but the fathers who went to Viet Nam
watch their sons march off to Afghanistan.
Octpowrimo's prompt for today (the 8th) was simply taste. Visit Octpowrito to read what others have written.