A zealous convert in the land of oatmeal

Our breakfast table groans under various species of muesli and cornflake, but is rarely asked to support a steaming bowl of porridge.

This may seem odd. After all, we live in Scotland, where porridge is celebrated in verse and recipe as virtually a national dish. There are even rumors the Scots invented it. But although my wife is unquestionably Scottish, since childhood she has never liked porridge. Neither the taste of it nor the smell of it. On the other hand, I'm English and like the stuff.

I suppose we can't all be typical.

So if I find myself, as I now do, with a sudden sense of porridge deficiency, the decent thing to do is wait until she's left for work, and (since I work at home) indulge the whim once she's out of sniffing range. I've tried it for the past three winter mornings, and there have been no rumors yet of divorce proceedings.

I am even beginning to think that a day is not worthy of the name if it does not kick off with the warm comfort of porridge. It "sticks," they say, "to the ribs." I can vouch for it.

My liking for porridge, I should observe, is a remarkable example of the triumph of excellence over education.

I don't believe I had eaten any porridge at home before going away to boarding school. But I soon found that it was a favorite concoction of the school kitchen.

I suppose it was cheap. It also retains heat like a woolly blanket while being transported from kitchen to dining hall to feed a mass of ravenous boys. But, like some other school dishes, school porridge was not an edifying experience. It was lumpy. It formed a soggy crust. It was sticky or solid or both. It was, to borrow a splendid Scottish word, "gluddery." I fancy that only Oliver Twist could possibly have wanted more of it.

Of course, I was not at school in Scotland or it would surely have been different. Here they treat oatmeal with a passion underscored by sands-of-time tradition, if not downright superstition. An articulate and funny Glasgow journalist named Clifford Hanley wrote that "outside Scotland, porridge is often a highly offensive experience" and that "alien races brutalize this magnificent Scots dish by heaving sugar over it; or syrup, or even jam. To the Scot, these practices have all the allure of eating anchovies with chocolate sauce."

But there are Scots who are much less strict and purist, and at least allow children to sprinkle sugar on their porridge without any dire warning that this may irreparably damage their Scottishness. Robert Louis Stevenson no less, when he was a child, drew maps on his porridge with syrup trailing off his spoon. And I admit freely that although I put salt in my porridge as I cook it, I find the crunch and flavor of Demerara sugar (a light-brown sugar with large granules) on it utterly delicious.

What I do also greatly enjoy, though, and this is definitely a Scottish refinement, is having the piping porridge in one bowl and creamy milk, very cold, in another. You take a spoonful of porridge and submerge it in the milk before moving it to your mouth. The combination of hot and cold is delectable. If you pour milk directly into the porridge bowl, the milk grows sadly warm as you eat, and also it dilutes the porridge.

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