As you all know, the narc had food issues. There were a million rules about food, its proper preparation, the consequences of wasting it, my inability to use “proper language” when describing it, his inability to remember what I like to eat and of course the many arguments about tortillas. Sigh.
Breakfast was no different. He insisted on eating oatmeal every morning. Every.Morning. With coffee, made just the way he likes it. Okie-dokie! I was on board for oatmeal because I really like it spread a bite at a time on toast. Yum! Oh, but wait! The first time he saw me eating it that way (we won’t talk about the horrors of eating bread!) he sneered at me and said that I was “eating like a ten-year-old!” and that was no way for an adult to eat oatmeal. I continued to eat toast with my oatmeal, but never again did I eat it “like a ten-year-old.” Just another small erosion of my Self.
The narc eats a lot of oatmeal and is also a cheapskate, so he insisted that I buy a 25-pound bag of Old Fashioned Oats (no other kind was acceptable, not even for a bit of variety) from the local bulk food store. This bag was stored in a musty cupboard behind my chair where it sat at the kitchen table.
::Just a word about the seating arrangement – there was just enough room for me to get into my chair, and not an inch more. You see, moving the table so I could actually sit comfortably was impractical, because that would mean that HE wouldn’t have three feet clear to maneuver around his chair (when it was pulled out for sitting) on the other side of the table, and it would interfere with the “traffic pattern,” never-mind that it was almost always just the two of us and if we were sitting down to a meal neither one of us was walking through the “traffic pattern.”::
So, in order to re-fill the re-purposed cat food containers (gack!) that lived in the cupboard by the stove (this particular duty never fell to him, rest assured) I had to move out my chair, move out the extra chair, get down on my knees, open the cupboard door as far as it would go, and squeeze the oatmeal bag out through the opening. I would fill the containers and reverse the process, being sure to put the chairs back exactly so, per instructions.
Because of the awkwardness of the cupboard, it was rarely opened and was used to store canned goods. As a result, it smelled musty and was damp after a rain storm. Since the oats had to be stored in the original bag (buying more plastic to clutter up our lives was against The Rules, even if it would mean fresher food. Using glass jars that I already owned was out of the question, too) you can imagine what the oatmeal tasted like at the bottom of the bag. And no, throwing it out was not an option because wasting food was akin to cold-blooded murder in the narc’s book.
Whew! Bad memories make my gut churn.
I hope y’all don’t think I’m crazy for this long prelude to say that yesterday I had oatmeal for breakfast. At 11:00. With tea and toast. While sitting on the couch, letting the dog do her best Begging Tricks. I used a ton of butter on the toast and I covered each delicious bite with oatmeal (with sugar added – another no-no in Narcland!) It was so delicious that I had the exact same meal (another no-no in Narcland!) for dinner. It was just as good, English muffin bread for the second round.
I smiled as I ate my fresh-from-the-round-box quick oats covered in real milk (“Milk is for babies! You’re going to die from drinking all that milk!”) with sugar drizzled on top. Sheesh! I’m sitting at work getting hungry all over again 🙂
Another small victory. Can “normal” be far behind?