I had forgotten about oats. That is, not really forgotten. I had just not thought about them for some time now. Summer had arrived–oats can make you feel a bit heavy–and I had come to enjoy other things for breakfast. As if I had neglected a long-time love affair for a bit, and I wasn’t quite aware of feeling sorry for it.
Now I was back in London and reminded of how I had missed it. Oats, or maybe mostly London. I had returned to porridge paradise, and to paradise, period. My love affair was back on.
I fell in love with London from the first illustrations and films of England I stumbled upon as a child. I found a safe and happy place in Beatrix Potter’s little watercolour drawings, the colours, the flowers, the forest, a mother rabbit carefully preparing camomile tea for her eldest son who almost got caught in Mr McGregor’s garden. There was such comfort in her worried anger, while lovingly putting her son to bed in their warm hole under the tree.
Jemima Puddle-Duck (left) and Peter Rabbit, Beatrix Potter, photographed in the V&A Museum
Then there was the Parent Trap, Lindsay Lohan playing twins separated by their parents, one with the mother in London, the other with the father in America. Those scenes of London in the rain, the red telephone boxes, the majestic London houses, people stopping to open their black umbrellas, others walking, bent slightly forward against the headwind, the umbrella held up in front of them with one hand, while keeping their hats firmly on their heads with the other. Rushing home, to work, disappearing into the holes of the underground.
I imagined people drinking tea with their loved ones, in beautiful rooms from beautiful cups, elegant sweets with pink raspberries, pale yellow sponge cake and piped cream, celebrating the occasion. The rain comfortingly cooling down any upsetting or unrest, the tea soothing any sadness, and the promise of a new day breaking through.
When people curl up in a chair with a book, or sit down behind their desk to write the next film script, draw the next cover illustration, or simply dreamingly stare into their gardens, a robin hipping in between the flowers brightened by the rain, drops of water zigzagging down the window.
London, to me, was the city of the Naked Chef, Paddington Bear and Richard Curtis romcoms. Light, inviting, happy, full of love and dreams that could be mine too. And I felt one day I would be Julia Roberts, just a girl standing in front of a boy.
I suppose, it is this world, that oats London style reminded me of. In London, oats are both a happy children’s birthday party and any one of four weddings or funeral, everyone invited. Oats London style are the metropolitan buzz, countryside escapes, lives lived in art, world politics, science, making the world a better place. Garden feelings of pastel colours combined with warm wood and flowers, or, alternatively, chiquely business, denim blue cups in an environment of red brown bricks and black windowpanes, grey suits walking in. Almost, but not quite, New York, invigorating.
And then the beautiful product packaging, stationary, book covers, coffee mugs, cereal boxes. Lollipop colours, thankfully not always accompanied by lollipop flavours. The lettering, reminiscent of Avalon mists, Shakespearean sonnets or of very 21st-century street art and outdoor survival expeditions. People going nuts for nut butters, cocoa, coconut. Banana bread and cardamom buns. The bright berry rainbow. Berries with scones, inside little chocolates, on top of overnight oats.
Left, porridge pots and cookbook bought in London; right, my own homemade porridge pot with oats, ground cashew nuts, dried date pieces, banana, coconut milk and cardamom. Cocoa powder and extra banana, date and cashew on top.
London turned my morning oats into a canvas to experiment with new colour, flavour and design combinations. My breakfasts turned into an art studio. For now, it was a lot of fun, but at the same time I had a feeling that the excitement, the new ideas London had given me, amplifying my beliefs and ambitions, might be my own first promise of a new day breaking through.
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