Cereals. I have no idea how I came to love them so much. Crunchy, nutty, flavourful, natural. Toasted. With Nuts and oats and brown sugar, flaked on. With warm or very cold milk.
Overtime, it became my comfort food. I’d run to my trusty box of Cinnamon Crunch cereals, and it would comfort me through hunger: the need for a little pick-me-up meal, a love lost, angst over an assignment that was getting the better of me, boredom, inter-personal issues. Cereal was my soft place to land and it allowed me to rationalize eating it without gaining too much weight. Or so I thought.
Overtime, I began to realize that though they could be healthy, the amount of sugar I would add ensured that any gains received from the meal would be negative. The natural, whole grain ones did not have enough sweetness so I’d add a little extra ‘pep to its step’ and wake up the taste to my mouth. Eventually I had to deal with the reality that it was causing more harm than I acknowledged..
Who would have thought that a innocent meal could become a weapon of self-destruction? As I matured and self examined, I realized that cereals were tied to a time of innocence for me and though I truly love it, it was time to face the demons and let go and grow into my big girl panties.
My love hasn’t died. It’s no longer tied to memories of a time that was. I’m enjoying the renewed affair, one Cini-mini at a time.