I was walking across campus on my way from work to choir. I was passing
Painter Hall — home of biology and computer science laboratories. I
was strolling along with my bag over my shoulder when I inhaled the
unmistakable odor of Malt-O-Meal.
I have no idea where it came from, or if it was, indeed, the
Malt-O-Meal I perceived it to be. But that short moment of olfactory
sensation triggered a chain of thoughts as I proceeded to the Music
building.
I didn’t even eat very much Malt-O-Meal as a kid, yet it is a smell and
food product I associate with my childhood. My mother was much more
likely to prepare plain old oatmeal. I know I consumed that
particular grain in large quantities, especially when it was made into
granola — but that is the subject of a rhetoric session for another
day.
I did, however, get my fair share of Malt-O-Meal. To this day I wonder
exactly what it is. I remember watching Annie and thinking, when the
evil woman who ran orphanage said, “You’re not having hot mush today,”
that surely she was referring to Malt-O-Meal. I imagined that when
Oliver Twist held out his bowl and humbly pleaded for “more,” he was
asking for more Malt-O-Meal. Any unidentifiable mixture, not quite
solid and not quite soup, was, in my mind, Malt-O-Meal.
I never ate Malt-O-Meal plain. Cinnamon and sugar — lots and lots of
sugar — was my most frequent flavor. Fresh peaches were exceptionally
rare; fresh strawberries even more so.
Today, given a choice, I would probably never buy Malt-O-Meal for
myself. Give me oatmeal. Give me bran flakes or corn flakes or puffed
wheat. But please don’t give me Malt-O-Meal.
And really, please, don’t give me Grape-Nuts, either. Please.
