Longtime readers of this blog will recall my patriotic affection for rolled oats, water and fruit and abiding intolerance of anyone who does not share in the love. People who microwave their oatmeal belong on the "Do Not Fly" list. People who do not eat oatmeal belong on the "You Are What's Wrong With Everything" list. This is America. And these are the rules. Don't like them? Take your stuffed-brioche-french-toast ass back to Aix-en-Provençe (Proper pronunciation "Axe Un Province.")
For those who know this great country, like I know this is great country--which is to say those who have heard the gospel of awesome oatmeal and found themselves born anew--I have glorious news. I have discovered the greatest bowl of oatmeal ever made, in the most unlikeliest place in the world. The place is Flour Bakery
in the town of Cambridge.
For the good of your country, you have got to get up on this--creamy perfectly cooked steel-cut oats. Fresh fruit sliced and diced right here in U.S. of A. Washed down with a hot cup of coffee. It's enough to make me ignore the hipsters at the counter with their smiles, good service and polite manner.
"But TNC," you say. "I thought you were real American? What are you doing hanging out in the communist commune of Cambridge?"
Bite me Sharia-boy. I'll have you know that in the time you phrased that question, I punched five Muslim atheists and broke up a game of hacky sack. My star-spangled armor is supreme. And when it comes to awesome oatmeal, no power in the socialist-verse can stop me.
Eat oatmeal. Your country is counting on you.
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is a national correspondent for The Atlantic
, where he writes about culture, politics, and social issues. He is the author of The Beautiful Struggle
, Between the World and Me,
and We Were Eight Years in Power