The Fine Line

I have developed the habit of late of getting up on Sunday morning, and, while slowly waking -- brought closer to the day with each sip-o-joe -- making granola.  Granola, as it turns out, is both very easy to make and very complicated.  Such is life.

The basic recipe is two cups raw oats, 1/3 cup oil, 1/2 cup sweetener such as honey, maple syrup, or agave nectar.  I prefer the latter, with just a hint of maple, please. I also add 1 teaspoon of cinnamon and 1/4 teaspoon of nutmeg.  You combine all this in a bowl, mix well, and lay out out oh so thinly on a baking sheet and cook at 300 degrees for 30 minutes, turning once at the halfway.  Pretty simple.

And cheap! Even buying organic oats, it's at least half the cost of boxed granola, plus no additives or box to get rid of, and I am using the healthy oil, canola.  (Thank you, kitchen gods, for giving us guilt-free oil (in small doses). And avocados. But I digress.)

Baking granola is wonderful.  Who, I ask you, doesn't love the smell of cinnamon baking in the kitchen?

The first time I made granola, this summer -- remember I was going on a simplicity kick? -- I was smitten.  Here was something I had been paying a ridiculous amount of money for (and have you noticed how many niche granola makers there are these days charging kingdom prices for their fancy wares?). Yet it was easy to make, and mine was even better than store-bought.

Oh, simple, silly me.  Because  like all things, once you become familiar with them, you are treated to the nuances, the finely etched lines of them, the cracks. What at first seemed like perfection I soon realized was not.  I wanted crispier, lighter, less sticky.  Every batch I strive for granola nirvana. Alas, I cannot find it.

The batches keep coming out ever so slightly gunky. It tends to clump together. (Cinnamon oatmeal chewing gum, is how the better half described it.) I think it's because I've been doubling the recipe, which throws off the cooking time.  If I leave the trays in for a bit longer, it gets a teensy bit too toasty. Today, after taking it out once -- cooling, cooling -- still too sticky... I put it back on the trays and back in the oven's maw.  Five minutes later, repeat.  I got mad and yelled at the oven, squatting there so boxy, looking all what-did-I-do stupid.

Let's just see how much time you need, sister!  Slam went the oven door and off I stomped to my room, far far away from the reach of the timer, leaving the baking sheets in just a teensy bit more than a teensy bit longer.

So. This week's granola flavor is called Campfire.  I spent 20 minutes culling out the dark brown to black oats while estimating how many pretty pennies this was not saving me. As we say around this house:  It's a fine line between clever and stupid.

But I am not giving up.  Not because of the expense factor. I am at a point in my life, thank goodness, when an extra five bucks a week isn't going to break me. And not because of the health factor, though I do rather like knowing the ingredients are all actually words commonly used outside a laboratory.

No, I will keep making granola on Sunday mornings because I love the ritual of it. I love the smell of it (unless charred). Most of all, I love the feel of it -- of the wooden-handled spatula in my hands, the curved rubber head mixing the oats. I love pulling down my trusty indigo blue bowl that has been the vessel for years upon years of cookies, pies and breads and my very favorite lemon squares, that I have fed to my family and friends.

(I just might believe it has a secret life of its own, Blue Bowl does, in which it loves being my favorite bowl and deep in the night whispers to her next door neighbor bowl upon the shelf, in an overly sweet voice, that it is the best-loved bowl of all.  To which the vintage frosted-glass, hand-painted Leaf Bowl haughtily replies: Yes, but it is I she takes to parties. Blue Bowl feels the pang of plain-janiness for a fleeting moment; however, she quickly recovers with a short sniff retort, secure in her heart that I love her best of all, my workhorse bowl, oh how I do.) 

Where was I? Oh, yes. I love crumbling the warm, toasted oats in my hands, transfering them from wax paper to the non-BPA bin from which I will scoop out a half-cup every day to top my yogurt and berries. And I love that I have a grateful eater, my sweetie, who adores that I make granola.

Oh, granola. You crazy edible art project you.  You know what I love the most? You make me feel like I am participating.  Not just consuming.  That it doesn't matter if I'm clever or stupid or -- more likely -- walking the very fine line in between, because you and me and Blue Bowl are in this thing together, and we are creating something. Someday we will get it right. We will! Or we will come to love clumps.

P.S. Husband just snacked on the latest batch, salvaged from the taint of ashen bits, and declared it my best yet. Hmmmmm.