For the past year, I have tried to lower my cholesterol by eating oatmeal for breakfast. I lugged the heavy saucepan to the stove, then measured the correct amount of water and rolled oats. Of course, no sugar was allowed, so I cut two very small prunes into even smaller pieces, to add a semblance of sweetness. Just minutes before the simmering slop was ready, I shook nutmeg, cloves, and cinnamon into the mix. Finally, when it was swimming in a bowl of soy milk, I sprinkled granola on top for crunchiness.
     My breakfast routine changed suddenly last week. One morning, after my first few sips of coffee, I opened the cupboard door and, instead of pulling out the big black pot, dug further and wrestled the never-used toaster oven from the back section of the bottom shelf. For some reason, I awoke that morning with a hankering for peanut butter on toast. Perhaps, I'd had a dream about my life as a young bride--a poor, young bride--who served a lot of peanut butter. An inexpensive source of protein, it was often breakfast, lunch, and dinner, too.      How many times did I smear both sides of a peanut butter sandwich with butter and plop it in the West Bend electric frying pan? A wedding gift from my hubby's aunt and uncle, the pan's surface was non-stick. Even so, perfect timing was involved. The peanut butter had to melt in the sandwich, but the bread could have no blackened edges.
     In those days, the mushy white bread was a store brand. Or Wonder bread, if we were feeling flush. The peanut butter was whatever I found on sale at the Red Owl. "Please God, make it be Skippy," I used to pray, as I wheeled the cart around the corner and made my way down the grocery store aisle.
     Every morning for the past week, I have spread peanut butter made with organic Valencia peanuts on thick, crusty pieces of high fiber, whole grain bread. I remove the toast from the oven at exactly the right moment, so it's crunchy on the bottom and slightly soft on top, then spread the peanut butter quickly and evenly. This is important: Every bit of bread has to be covered.
     My husband hasn't gotten the hang of this. One morning he jumped up when the timer went off. "I'll do it," he said. But no more. He plunked the peanut butter in the center of the toast and completely missed the four corners. Like any art, I explained to him, it takes practice. And a good eye.
     The jar of peanut butter is now empty. With only a short time until my cholesterol recheck, I have come to grips with the sad fact that the toaster oven must return to its lonely place in the bottom cupboard. When my husband calls today, to ask if there is anything he can pick up on his way home from work, I'll say, "You'd better pick up oatmeal."
     "Oatmeal," I'll repeat, the word sticking to the roof of my mouth.